


Senselessly Happy and Unsuspecting

by luchia



Series: stupid terrorist boys [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Accidentally seducing your technically-husband, Bad Parents, Enjolras is such a loser oh my god, Glove Kink, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Show your husband you care with a shiny custom ball gag, Vaguely Related Drabbles Regarding Stupid Boys Being Dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/pseuds/luchia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mini-fics of stupid terrorist boys being stupid together.</p><p>These are mostly things I've put up on my tumblr! These are also mostly porn with little to no plot involved!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. {Sicily} - 1 month after Tripoli

Sicily should not be this hot.

Then again, considering it happens to be mid-July and their hotel room has no air conditioning, it probably should. The fact the heat is natural doesn’t keep Grantaire from loathing it. It’s that level of heat that leaves everyone sprawled half naked in the shade, and shade isn’t exactly plentiful in this area of Sicily.

Enjolras got them a shared room in a small hotel in a tiny Sicilian town that has a pointed absence of anything fun. Or alcoholic fun, at least. There’s a liquor store (which he’s frequented already) and a restaurant that cheerily serves wine to the locals (which Grantaire has also frequented already), but that only gets him so far for so long. He has an endless itch beneath his skin, like his veins are about to burst out of his skin. It’s just another symptom of being touch-starved, and Grantaire hates it, and Grantaire would usually go pick up a random stranger at a bar, but there are no real bars here, and there are no strangers, either – one night stands aren’t common when every single person in the building will know who you are and what you did the night before.

So, hot and bored and not-quite-horny while Enjolras dumped him in the middle of Sicily to go run off to do whatever the fuck he does when he’s not being an overly protective asshole (Tripoli was a _month_ ago, he can calm the fuck down already, Jesus), Grantaire tries to paint.

His paints are almost melted, to the point that even handling them has left Cadmium red streaks across his hands.

Fuck, Grantaire is going to have to _have words_ with Enjolras about this whenever he gets back.

And he’d go buy charcoal (it’s a charcoal kind of day; everything but charcoal and paint feels too neat and clean) but that’d involve going outside, into the sunlight.

So, Grantaire ends up sitting in the open window of their tiny room to catch a puff of the disgustingly light breeze. His shirt’s off and it doesn’t keep him from having to deal with sweating to the point that there’s little salty beads slowly streaking their way down his body regardless of how he angles his body or how the breeze helpfully tousles his already horrible hair just a little more. He’s sitting there drinking _water_ it’s so bad, cup of water in one hand and one of Enjolras’ ridiculous political theory books that is read so often that it’s threatening to fall apart no matter how carefully Grantaire holds it.

He’s so involved in trying to get the fucking breeze to at least touch the back of his neck, drinking water in the process, that it takes Grantaire a heat-laden moment to fully open his eyes and really notice that Enjolras is standing in the doorway.

Enjolras is standing in the doorway, and staring.

Something seems weird about the way he’s watching Grantaire, but that could very definitely be from the fact he’s fighting heat stroke at the moment. And Enjolras is wearing his fucking red coat, so Grantaire slides out of the windowsill and sets the book and water down in favor of sliding towards Enjolras. Even the stupid fucking floor is hot, so he steps lightly. 

And Enjolras keeps staring, mute, which is pretty weird since the man usually can’t keep quiet for more than a few seconds and he _always_ has something to say to Grantaire. He expects criticism for lifting the book, or not finding some eco-friendly cup or whatever has Enjolras all stiff and controlled and probably dying of heat with that coat on.

“Take the coat off, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, but Enjolras doesn’t even move, still breathing in that calm and smooth way that means he isn’t calm or smooth in the least. Maybe something went wrong. Maybe Enjolras isn’t just staring.

Grantaire starts to worry.

He reaches out, slowly, and Enjolras breathes in sharply, but he doesn’t object when Grantaire reaches out to cup a hand around his neck, feeling his pulse with his thumb, and it’s pounding away, which. Is not good. It might be the heat, and god knows Enjolras is flushed, so Grantaire risks it and presses his other hand against his cheek, pushing sweat-dampened golden curls away from Enjolras’ face to look intently in his eyes, which is ridiculous, it’s not like he’ll be able to see if something’s wrong – but then again, there’s something off about them. His eyes are lidded and heated and flick between Grantaire’s eyes and lips and he looks about ready to pass out.

“Fuck,” Grantaire says, because Enjolras does not look like this. Ever. His breath is labored and his hands are balled into fists and he’s leaning forward – does he have a fever? He has a fever, he definitely has a fever, fuck, Grantaire can’t remember how you deal with a fever, and he ends up speaking aloud, pushing Enjolras’ coat off his shoulders and saying, “Okay, okay, let’s get you undressed-”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, voice low and dark, almost a growl, and it’s. Grantaire has to clear his throat and look away because yeah, it’s really fucking sexy. He concentrates on getting the coat off of Enjolras because it really could just be heat stroke, Enjolras isn’t going to take care of himself when he’s out on a job and leaving Grantaire in the hotel.

When he gets Enjolras’ coat off, Enjolras’ hands hover over Grantaire’s bare shoulders, and Grantaire just can’t deal with that so he ducks away and collects Enjolras’ weapons-laden coat from the foot-singeing floor to put it in the wardrobe. Grantaire could safely get all the tools out by now, but he doesn’t have time, considering how confused Enjolras looks. He grabs his bottle of water and hands it over, and Enjolras manages to hold it, thank fuck. “You need to hydrate,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras stares at him like he’s insane.

He’s doing a whole lot of staring.

Grantaire has no idea how he’s really doing, so he snaps his fingers in front of Enjolras’ face, just in case the staring isn’t just Enjolras being weird. He blinks, thank god, and when Grantaire says, “Follow my finger with your eyes,” he barely has time to twitch his index finger to the left before Enjolras whaps it away, scowling.

Scowling is much better than staring.

Enjolras’s cheeks are burning red, so Grantaire says, “Sit down and drink the water.”

The only times Enjolras is obedient are when he’s not feeling fully under control of himself, so it’s not exactly a good sign that he obeys. The fact he drinks the water and then covers his face with his hands, muttering so quietly that Grantaire couldn’t hope to hear it, is a very good sign. A talking Enjolras is usually an okay Enjolras.

He goes into the bathroom to fetch a cold washcloth, and when he comes back out Enjolras’ head is bowed, still muttering into his hands. Which is convenient for Grantaire, who plops the cool cloth onto the back of Enjolras’ neck.

“Feeling better?” Grantaire asks.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Enjolras says. “Absolutely nothing is wrong.”

“Of course,” Grantaire says, because it’s best to humor him sometimes. Occasionally. Well, it’s a good idea if he looks about ready to fall down. 

Grantaire grabs his shirt out of the pile and tugs it on. “Either way, I’m going to go get us another bottle of water,” he says, and Enjolras just gives an acknowledging wave of his hand before Grantaire shrugs and walks out the door.

~

The moment the door clicks shut and Enjolras can hear Grantaire’s sandaled feet prowling away from the room like some lazy panther, Enjolras lets out the deep shuddering breath he’s been holding back, and fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he tries not to, he avoids it at all cost because it’s fine to think Grantaire’s attractive, it’s normal, Enjolras has eyes, but he’s thinking about sunlight and sweat droplets and wondering if that’s what Grantaire would look like if Enjolras had fucked him against the wall so brutally he screamed and _shit_ , he gives in and lurches into the bathroom.

Enjolras is smart, he has to be smart about this, but fuck, all he can think about is the way Grantaire had looked and walked and said _let’s get you undressed_ , the feel of red-streaked fingers brushing against his skin and he has enough sense to turn on the shower for something to cover the noises he knows he’s going to be making. He locks the door and unbuttons his pants, unzips them brutally fast and groans at the feeling of lifting his pants and underwear off of his already-hard cock. 

He doesn’t know how Grantaire ( _Grantaire_ , oh _fuck_ ) missed it, but it could’ve been the way he kept staring into Enjolras’ eyes, and that is so fucking hot. He imagines Grantaire sucking his cock and never once taking his eyes off Enjolras, holding his gaze the entire fucking time, and Enjolras starts stroking himself, knowing this is going to be fast and rough. And he wants it that way. Grantaire would want it that way too, because he’d want anything, _everything_ , desperately beg for it even if he was gagging on Enjolras’ cock, but no.

No, no, no. He doesn’t want that. Yes, he _wants_ that, but that’s not how he’d do it. Oh no.

Enjolras tries to take a deep breath, slows his hand, leans his head back against the wall he’s sitting against. But sitting is an inappropriate word for this. His back is arched against the wall, legs splayed wide, and sitting makes it sound stationary, immobile. Every muscle in his body is straining and keening at the thought of how fucking close Grantaire was. Enjolras could’ve touched him. Enjolras could’ve slid his palms across Grantaire’s bare sweat-slick skin, could’ve licked the curve of his neck, could’ve buried his fingers in clinging damp curls and made even more of a mess of him.

The shower’s running, and it’s a good excuse to get naked, it’s an excellent excuse. He manages to unbutton his shirt and kick off his shoes and ignores the socks, fuck the socks, he’s panting and trying to find his usual sense of control with this. Enjolras is not an animal. He has control. He has control of himself, and he has control of Grantaire, Grantaire who goes and fucks strangers but always comes back, _always_ , Grantaire who looks at him with those fuck-me blue eyes and leans towards him like he’s the only bit of sunlight in Grantaire’s entire world, and he shouldn’t like it but fuck he really does, he _loves it_ , wants to bend Grantaire over the bed and fuck him until he cries. He’d split Grantaire open and Grantaire would love it and Enjolras could finally see what’s inside, maybe finally _understand_ what’s inside.

Enjolras knows he’s talking, can hear the choked out words escaping his lips as he jerks off and sweats against the wall like he’s one of the people Grantaire sneaks off with when he thinks Enjolras isn’t watching. But Enjolras is always watching, and he knows they’re never what Grantaire wants. Grantaire wants Enjolras any way he can get him and oh, Enjolras wants him, wants him so fucking bad he’s whining in a heat-soaked bathroom imagining what it’d be like, maybe, to have Grantaire seduce him like he does all those other useless bodies. 

He imagines it’d be quite a lot like what Enjolras just experienced. Grantaire would just slink forward and look him over and there’d be no blood or danger of being completely consumed by whatever this thing they have is, it’d be one night, he could have _one night_ , he deserves it. One night of Grantaire riding his cock, they could be right here, right on this floor, Grantaire breathing against his mouth because he’s too lost in how good Enjolras is making him feel to even manage a kiss, how completely Enjolras owns him, mouth helplessly open and begging in a voice that just gets higher and more frantic with every thrust, saying _oh please, please, Enjolras-_

Enjolras comes as silently as possible, biting his lower lip so hard he can taste blood, knows it’ll be swollen, and he has to grab on to the side of the toilet, shuddering, because he feels like he’ll fly apart. He strokes himself through it, shuddering, grip on the porcelain so tight his knuckles are a matching white.

The world seems completely silent for a long moment where all he can think of is Grantaire’s eyes looking into his own and nowhere else. Everything is still except for Enjolras, panting and shaking just a little bit.

Numbly, Enjolras considers the fact that masturbation is not usually like this.

It is painfully hot out, and Enjolras feels sluggish and filthy, and the shower is cool, but not cold. He steps into the spray, washing sweat and come and shame off of himself (he doesn’t do that, he’s not supposed to do that, not when he’s thinking about Grantaire, he’s only making the problem worse this way and he’s ashamed that he _doesn’t feel ashamed_ ).

When he’s dressed and dry and ready to face the world again, he steps out of the bathroom, already expecting to see Grantaire there.

Grantaire smiles at him, and hands him a bottle of water. He’s still attractive, but it’s survivable.

“Feel better?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras doesn’t even try to answer. He opens the bottle with a sharp twist, and the cap lets out a rapid staccato cracking, just like it always does. He watches Grantaire for a moment, and then looks away, and drinks.


	2. Paris - 6(ish) Months After Gnomon

It’s a frigid day in November when Grantaire finally really gets it. By now he’s kind of used to Enjolras watching his hands. He does it for plenty of reasons – to see how badly Grantaire’s hands are shaking from sobriety, to glance at the colors splashed on his skin, to watch Grantaire sketch or the way he absently taps and flicks ash from cigarettes.

But it’s _different_ when he pulls his gloves out.

He already knows Enjolras has some kind of _thing_ about his hands, and Grantaire doesn’t even try to figure it out. Grantaire doesn’t try to figure out anything about why Enjolras is in love with him, he just tries to believe it, and he’s getting better at that. It’s taken about half a year for him to actually believe this is real, but he will never _understand_ it. 

But Enjolras is all about hands. Grantaire has simple needs, which mostly boil down to _Enjolras_ , and if Enjolras is extremely enthusiastic about fellating his fingers and is kind of mindblowingly into getting fingered, hey, Grantaire is not going to complain. Oh, he’ll stare. He stares a lot. But this is different.

Grantaire still habitually keeps his leather gloves around. Mostly because he has learned the value of even a small amount of insulation, and a little bit that they remind him of the good old days of just killing people instead of having to smile for cameras and listen to Enjolras metaphorically slaughter people with words instead of literally kill people with bullets. And of course there’s always the chance it’ll get cold.

He’s had the same pair of gloves since their first job together, when Enjolras had bluntly informed him that he either needed gloves or to learn how to wipe down a crime scene. Grantaire isn’t exactly good at cleaning, or being any kind of thorough, so gloves it was.

They’re simple and soft leather and well-fitted and black and barely reach his wrists. Technically, Enjolras bought them for him.

And at first he thinks that’s what it is – Enjolras is fucking obsessed with that. He tries not to be, which is kind of cute, but he wouldn’t be Enjolras without being occasionally creepy in a way that shouldn’t be endearing but really is.

Enjolras would probably dress Grantaire every single day in new clothes he bought _just for Grantaire_ if he could, but that’s really stupid and it doesn’t even matter if they have the money ( _so_ much money) for it. There are limits to how much pampering he can take, and Enjolras knows it, but he still always has to go that extra step, like he thinks Grantaire always needs a cherry on top. 

But by now he knows what that looks like. Enjolras has a flash of it in his eyes every time he even looks at Grantaire’s wedding ring. This isn’t that. This is something that makes Enjolras think he has to quickly look away, like he doesn’t want Grantaire to catch him watching his hands. And it’s not his _hands_ ; he openly watched Grantaire’s hands even before they were a thing.

It’s the gloves. 

Enjolras is completely hot for his gloves. 

Whether it’s any gloves or the gloves Enjolras bought for him or if it’s just gloves on Grantaire’s already much-loved hands, Grantaire doesn’t know. But he really, _really_ wants to. And Grantaire has no idea what it means that Enjolras is downright _embarrassed_ about this, but he wants to know that, too.

Grantaire hates shopping, but it’s a very worthy cause, and if there was ever somewhere to buy gloves, it’s Paris. His own pair was purchased in a tiny shop in Switzerland where they probably killed the cow out back or something. If he’s doing this, he is going to do it right, because God knows Enjolras is willing to indulge him in damn near everything. Although Grantaire kind of indulges Enjolras by letting Enjolras indulge Grantaire – whatever. The point is, Enjolras isn’t going to ask for this glove thing. He has only barely come to understand that Grantaire doesn’t have to write a ten page essay to invite him to bed. And being thorough isn’t what Grantaire’s good at, but for Enjolras, he will try.

There are shops completely dedicated to gloves, which seems weird. But Grantaire has a fuck ton of money and spends absolutely none of it because he has no idea how you even try to do that, and spending it on gloves for his hands for Enjolras is as good a use as any. He ends up buying a few different pairs; they’re all custom-made. Different fabrics, different colors, different lengths, and they’re all perfectly fitted. Gloves aren’t exactly his thing but even Grantaire can’t help but admire the final product.

He’d wait for some sort of a holiday or a big anniversary or something but any sort of ‘anniversary’ for them would be a fuzzy definition to be sure; Grantaire is operating under the assumption that Revised-PACS Second Marriage is their official thing to have an anniversary for, but Enjolras might think it’s something else, and really, their lives are such a mess. 

So, he just picks a day. 

Enjolras doesn’t really have weekends anymore and Grantaire’s never actually had a workday in his whole fucking life so he just kind of says _fuck it_ and picks a Wednesday night, where they don’t have to do anything until a reasonable two in the afternoon the next day.

Enjolras absolutely knows something’s happening, but he makes a very obvious point of not prying, like he’s very proud of himself for it and wants Grantaire to be too. He tries very hard to be normal, no matter how many times Grantaire tells him he doesn’t have to be _normal_ , he just has to not act like a serial killer.

To be fair, Grantaire doesn’t exactly set a good example. When Enjolras finally walks through his (their) front door, Grantaire immediately calls out, “Lock the door.”

“How many?” Enjolras asks, obviously not the least bit bothered or suspecting anything unusual. The whole thing where they’re no longer sitting in small compartments on trains for days at a time has occasionally left them floundering to find time to just _be together_. They usually have sex too, but sometimes they just sit.

Not today.

Today is going to be a sex day.

Grantaire eyes the box he has sitting next to him on the couch and says, “One lock, for now.”

“Please don’t be naked in there,” Enjolras says.

“Don’t worry, I’m still gift wrapped,” Grantaire says dryly, and manages to just keep sketching and smoking when Enjolras walks in and freezes the moment he sees the very simple black satin gloves Grantaire is wearing with a pair of jeans and one of their shirts that’s become more of an Enjolras shirt than a Grantaire shirt. The gloves are perfectly fitted and stop halfway up his forearm at some heathen length that one store had outright refused to make. 

When Grantaire finally gives in and looks up, Enjolras is staring at him. Flushed. With his mouth slightly parted.

They stare at each other for a moment, and then Enjolras turns and walks back the way he came, which is not what Grantaire was expecting _at all_ , he totally fucked this up, didn’t he. Maybe he completely misread Enjolras, maybe the blushing at gloves thing is just some sort of embarrassment at Grantaire buying them in the first place or, fuck, he doesn’t know what else it could be. He quickly grinds his cigarette into one of the ash trays that are found on practically every flat surface and he’s about to pull the gloves off and try to figure out how the fuck you salvage something like this when you’re the one who ruined everything, but Enjolras comes back.

“I had to lock the door again,” Enjolras says quietly, voice already vaguely shaky, Jesus. Maybe he did fuck this up, in a completely different way. Maybe a surprise wasn’t the way to go here. 

But Grantaire is used to this part, at least, so he sets his sketchbook to the side and gives Enjolras the nod that he’s finally starting to accept as an invitation. He walks over and sits directly next to Grantaire, obviously torn between looking at Grantaire and looking at the gloves. That’s all he does, too – he just sits completely still and _looks_.

“Do we have communication issues?” Grantaire asks very carefully.

“Where did you get those?” Enjolras asks, which means _yes_ since he probably doesn’t even know what Grantaire just asked, and wow. Grantaire thought this was a thing but he didn’t know it was _this_ big of a thing.

Grantaire thinks about maybe taking the gloves off so they can actually talk, but instead he carefully raises one gloved hand and presses his palm to Enjolras’ cheek. He watches intently as Enjolras doesn’t quite flinch, but he does _tense_ , taut and ready to snap and it’s really not normal for him.

“Okay, Enjolras, you’re being kind of strange, tell me-”

“I don’t know what to tell you, I don’t _understand it_ ,” Enjolras says quickly, like not knowing why he’s hot for gloves makes him completely furious. He finally takes a deep breath and looks directly into Grantaire’s eyes and nowhere else. “Where did you get these?”

“I bought them all a couple weeks ago,” Grantaire answers, and flexes a satin-clad hand directly in front of Enjolras’ wide eyes. “These are custom fitted and a horribly scandalous length, I figured I would start with the simplest ones-”

“ _Start with?_ ” Enjolras says, outright gaping at Grantaire now. And oh, this is fun, but Enjolras looks close to hyperventilating, which is not, so Grantaire stupidly doesn’t even think about what he’s doing, he just needs to get a glove off and he bites on the tip of a finger and slips his hand out and Enjolras fucking _whines_. Just from that. Enjolras is flushed and making noises like that from nothing but Grantaire taking off a fucking glove.

“Okay, you’re going to have to at least try to tell me what’s up,” Grantaire says, and when Enjolras doesn’t answer, he adds, “I don’t need an explanation, I need a status report.” Really, Grantaire would _love_ an explanation, but at this point he doubts Enjolras could explain why the sun rises.

Enjolras nods, and very carefully, almost _nervously_ , reaches out to touch Grantaire’s still satin-gloved hand. It’s a light touch, more a sweep of his index finger along the satin than anything else. “We are very, very good,” he says, dazed.

Grantaire wonders if he should just keep the other gloves in the box for now so that Enjolras doesn’t go insane. He never, ever expected Enjolras to be _this_ into it, but then again, Enjolras also looks kind of close to freaking out about it, so any kind of control would be a good thing for him. Enjolras flipped at least two locks on the door, so he knew a reaction like this was coming, and Grantaire’s going to do his best to catch up.

“I don’t really understand this glove thing, but I’m more than happy to play with it if you want,” Grantaire says, since the only thing Enjolras seems to like more than his hands is his _consent_. Just outright stating he’s fine with the way Enjolras is lusting for fabric right now earns him a moment of pleased humming. “But you have to pick which ones you want.”

“Which whats?” Enjolras asks, actually looking more like himself now when he frowns at Grantaire.

It’s as good an opening as any, so Grantaire reaches over to the glove box. “I figured if we’re doing this, we’d better do it right,” he says simply, and after a moment of consideration he pulls the second satin glove off (with fingers, not teeth; he doesn’t want Enjolras to explode) and carelessly tosses the pair into Enjolras’ lap. Which apparently has him close to hyperventilating again, so Grantaire leans forward and pulls him into a kiss.

This, at least, Enjolras knows. These days, a kiss usually starts slowly and builds beautifully, but this time Enjolras’ mouth crashes against his own, a hand already wrapping itself in Grantaire’s hair and holding tightly as Enjolras does his best to _devour_ Grantaire. And Grantaire had plans, he’s sure he had plans, but instead he ends up almost literally choking on Enjolras’ desperate tongue and fuck, it is so, so good. He ends up pressed into the couch cushions and Enjolras’ other hand is already on his hip, daring its way beneath his waistband and fuck, fuck, they need to stop.

Grantaire manages to gasp his way out of the kiss, but Enjolras just changes his target, nipping at his jaw and Jesus this is not what he expected, _at all_. This is full-tilt sex-focused Enjolras, and really, Grantaire should have realized this was going to happen and Enjolras is driving him _insane_. Grantaire actually has to say, “Slow down, we aren’t even at the good part yet.”

“The good part is always you, that will never change,” Enjolras says, because he says this kind of shit. It makes Grantaire feel freakishly fluttery no matter how many times it happens, and that is why there are gloves. Yes. Grantaire is being a good husband.

He delicately pries himself away enough to finally get to the glove box, and Enjolras figures it out after Grantaire fumbles with the cardboard lid. He still has a hand stroking through Grantaire’s hair and refuses to stop kissing Grantaire’s neck, but he’s paying just enough attention that there can be actual explanations. Grantaire clears his throat and says, “I don’t know what this glove thing is and it sounds like you don’t either – which is fine, we’re great, that’s not going to matter – but there’s options.”

Enjolras has his eyes closed, and it takes Grantaire elbowing him in the ribs for Enjolras to finally give in and open his eyes. He still doesn’t look at the box, though. “I don’t like not knowing,” he admits.

“You never do,” Grantaire says, and ends up thinking _what would Enjolras do?_ Which is pretty fucking ridiculous. Nobody should ever, ever do what Enjolras would do. _Enjolras_ usually shouldn’t do what Enjolras would do. But, it leads him to say, “Which is why we’re going to figure it out. And stop acting like you’re ashamed of this glove thing, it’s not weird.”

“It’s a little weird,” Enjolras says.

“I’ve talked you out of trying to have sex in Napoleon’s throne,” Grantaire says dryly.

“Everyone wants to do that,” Enjolras says dismissively, because apparently thinking gloves are hot is a thousand times worse than wanting to defile a historical treasure.

Grantaire sighs, and just. He _knows_ Enjolras wants this, and Grantaire is looking forward to seeing what exactly happens, and Enjolras is now nipping at his ear and has a hand under his shirt and this is going to very quickly dissolve into sex without gloves. And maybe that’d be okay, they could communicate and shit, but Grantaire slides a hand inside of the glove box and pulls out the next pair.

Enjolras is busy doing his best to tease Grantaire into giving up and just throwing a leg over his lap and grinding against him like there’s no tomorrow, so he doesn’t notice when Grantaire slips on the second pair of gloves, or at least he doesn’t notice until he feels the silk slide against his arm. Grantaire runs his gloved fingers lightly up from elbow to shoulder, and then up from shoulder to torture Enjolras with small silken circles against his neck. Enjolras’ hands snap forward and grab Grantaire’s shoulders, and he gasps.

The second set of gloves is bright red silk, ending at his wrist. They’re probably Grantaire’s least favorite, but that doesn’t matter, in the long run. What does matter is the way Enjolras’ breath is coming out sharp and fast against Grantaire’s cheek. He wants to ask _what do you want_ , but that’s wrong. He knows what Enjolras wants, knows Enjolras wants to see and feel the gloves on Grantaire’s hands and touching bare skin, he just needs to know how to give it to him.

“Tell me what to do,” Grantaire says instead. It’s quiet but sincere, and it makes Enjolras pause, makes him actually give in and _look_. Grantaire watches him – sees the way he visibly steels himself but still breathes heavier just looking at Grantaire’s gloved hands. And then he _finally_ dares to look at the glove box. 

“Fuck. Okay, what are the options here, I need to know that at least, Grantaire, I don’t _know_ and-” Grantaire kisses him again, and it calms him down enough that he clears his throat and continues, head pressed against Grantaire’s shoulder. “Show me. But take the gloves off, I need to.” He has to stop again. “Just show me, please.”

Grantaire can do that easily enough. Enjolras’ eyes are fixed on the box, so he doesn’t see Grantaire quickly take the red gloves off. After a moment of consideration, Grantaire carefully disentangles himself and leans forward to put the glove box on the coffee table, laying the red gloves on the wood. They’re followed by the black satin, and then he pulls out the third pair as businesslike as possible.

Pair three is elbow-length white cotton, with buttons on the edges so Grantaire can actually manage to get them on and off while keeping them as perfectly fitted as possible. They’re warm and simple enough that Grantaire might end up actually wearing them around, unless Enjolras explodes or something. He manages to handle those well enough, sitting perfectly rigid like he’s some sort of scared little boy waiting to get in trouble with his teacher. Which is not an idea to have. Ever.

Grantaire waits for a nod, and then he pulls out pair four. They’re dark brown leather and very _masculine_ , all firm lines and rough stitching and, according to the shop, they’re all the rage these days for horse riding. Grantaire fucking hates horses but he really loves Enjolras, who ends up reflexively grabbing Grantaire’s arm with a painfully tight grip, which is definitely a point in pair four’s favor. He’s flushed again, which is even more of a point in their favor, and that’s pretty interesting. Grantaire was betting it be the fifth pair, even been holding them back just to see Enjolras’ reaction.

When he releases Grantaire’s arm and nods again, Grantaire casually pulls them out, and the moment Enjolras sees them he lets out a rushed, strangled, “ _Oh my god Grantaire_.” Grantaire can’t help the smug grin that stretches across his face as Enjolras keeps gaping.

Pair five is wrist-length black lace gloves, dark and delicate and just a little bit rough to the touch. The glove ends in a not-quite-frilly darker black band of lace, and really they’re a masterpiece of design. He’d gotten a particularly knowing look from the shop for these, but since it’d resulted in the glovemaker talking about the different varieties of lace and how much strain they can take and what compliments the curve of his wrist and the lines of his fingers, Grantaire did _not_ mind. Fuck, he’ll probably go there repeatedly if this becomes an actual regular thing.

“I thought so,” Grantaire says, more than a little bit self-satisfied, but when he moves to slide them on, Enjolras stops him with a hand pressed to his arm. Which is fine, they can take this slow, that’s definitely a good idea and he’s okay with that.

“Wait,” Enjolras says, and runs a hand down his face and Jesus he is _bright red_ , and ends up putting his hand back up, over his face. Which is ridiculous and _adorable_ and Grantaire has to fight to keep from laughing. He manages to keep his expression relatively straight. Mostly. Thank god Enjolras can’t see him. “Okay, fuck, I’m just going to ask you, and it’s fine if you say no, there’s no way I would be mad at you at all and it’s completely reasonable-”

“Just ask, Enjolras,” Grantaire says as patiently as possible.

“Your gloves,” Enjolras says, and hunches in on himself. “Fuck, I can’t believe I’m – your usual gloves. The _you_ gloves, are those an option?”

And that is…not what Grantaire was expecting. Which was probably really stupid of him, since they’re gloves that Enjolras bought. “Of course they are,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras lets out a deep breath that’s so full of relief that it’s almost painful to listen to. Grantaire leans forward and kisses his burning cheek, as reassuringly as possible. “They’re in my coat.”

“I’ll get them,” Enjolras says, which is kind of weird, but if he wants to, Grantaire isn’t going to say no. He stands quickly, and hesitates for a moment but finally asks, “Bedroom?”

Grantaire can’t keep back the relieved smile, and doesn’t even try to. Enjolras is okay with this, with the gloves. Or he’s starting to be, at least. Enjolras smiles back, and it’s a small, hopeful thing. They’re going to be alright. “I’ll meet you there, then,” he says cheerily, and takes a moment to kiss Enjolras before heading into their room.

Per usual, their West-facing windows are wide open, and Grantaire tries to decide whether to go for natural light or privacy. It doesn’t take much thought, though – Enjolras double-locked the door. He doesn’t want anyone possibly seeing them. He turns on every light in the room and shuts the blinds and Enjolras still isn’t there, which is kind of ridiculous, but if he needs to freak out in private or something that’s just fine. Grantaire can be patient. He just sits down on their bed and waits.

When he finally comes in, Grantaire’s gloves in hand, he’s still flushed and looks kind of guilty and Grantaire knows _that_ kind of red to his cheeks. He gapes at him. “You jerked off!”

Enjolras obviously wants to deny it, but instead he clenches his jaw for a moment and goes with firm in-your-face honesty. “You just figured out the glove thing,” he says. “You _just_ figured it out, Grantaire. And you’ve just been sitting there torturing me and that’s _fine_ , but you only just figured it out while I have been staring at these stupid fucking gloves and praying you didn’t notice and I have been doing that for _two and a half years_ , exactly how long do you think I would last right now?”

Grantaire frowns. “And you decided to jerk off in the hall? What, did you think I’d criticize you for this?”

Enjolras glares at the gloves in his hand, even if he holds them delicately, like they’re something precious. “They’re just _gloves_ , but I’m five seconds from coming just taking them out of your coat,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire is finally starting to understand how much this whole hot-for-gloves thing bothers him. It’s not logical, and he can’t find any genuine cause for it. Enjolras likes things to be understandable and precise and with obvious reasons behind how things are. The only thing Enjolras likes that isn’t that way is Grantaire, and even then he can at least _predict_ him. Apparently, having a huge glove kink is the worst thing in the world for him, because he feels like he has no control over himself, and even more horrific, he can’t figure out what’s causing that loss of control.

So, he sighs, and says, “Okay, I’ll just start listing things. The tamest one is probably a skirt. There’s a lot of potential fun there.”

Enjolras frowns at him. “What?”

“And I long ago embraced the fact I get off on risking voyeurism, which I think we share, so that’s good,” Grantaire continues. “But fuck, I can’t even _think_ about you gagging me without getting hard. It’s almost embarrassing how fast that gets me off.”

Which is Enjolras’ point, Grantaire realizes. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of, really. Their kinks aren’t exactly risqué. Well, none of the ones that Grantaire’s discovered. One night stand after one night stand didn’t really give him much time to explore anything beyond the basics.

Grantaire smiles at him. “If you think hands in leather are the hottest thing ever, I am all for putting leather on my hands.” He reaches out and says, “Gloves, please.”

Enjolras hesitates, but walks forwards and hands them over gingerly. “It’s more than just hands in leather,” he says, like he’s confessing some horrible sin. “With _these_ , it’s just.” He groans, frustrated and desperate. “With _these_ , it’s just so many things put together, they drive me _insane_.”

Grantaire nods, because that makes a lot of sense. Enjolras has a thing for gloves in general, to be sure. But for this particular pair, Enjolras bought them for him. He did so early on in their acquaintance, so they’re one of Enjolras’ first real claims on him, if not _the_ first. And Grantaire’s used them so often over the years that the whole ‘ _your_ gloves’ thing makes plenty of sense.

“I’m putting them on,” Grantaire warns him.

“Wait, wait, hold on,” Enjolras says quickly, and rushes out of the bedroom, and then rushes back in with a fucking chair, what the hell, is he expecting some kind of glove-wearing lap dance? Which Grantaire would happily provide, of course, but it’s kind of weird. When Enjolras notices the confused look Grantaire is giving the chair, he oh so clearly explains, “For lines.”

“What does that even mean?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras sighs. “I know it’s stupid, just humor me.”

“It’s not stupid,” Grantaire says. “It’s just a really shitty explanation.”

“Just put the fucking gloves on, Grantaire,” Enjolras snaps, scowling at him from the chair he’s planted directly in front of Grantaire, and oh yes, that is _much_ more like it. Much more Enjolras-y. Grantaire likes things that are Enjolras-y, and nothing so much as Enjolras.

He should add that one to the list of kinks he’s starting to build in his head – he really, really like Enjolras snapping at him. He likes Enjolras getting mad at him, because it’s like everything in his entire world focuses down to Grantaire being _wrong_ and he needs to make Grantaire _right_ and it’s a beautiful thing. He doesn’t succeed, of course, but it’s the effort that Grantaire loves, the unquenchable fire devoted entirely to fixing him.

Grantaire tries to figure out if there’s some special way he should go about putting the gloves on. Sharp and quick? Slow and teasing? But his mind catches on what Enjolras said, that he’s been watching Grantaire put them on and take them off for years and it’s been driving him crazy every single time. 

So, that’s how he does it. No fuss, no teasing, no speed. He just puts them on like he always does. The only difference is that this time, Enjolras is allowed to watch.

And watch he does. He leans forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees as his eyes trace every single movement of Grantaire’s hands, not even breathing. That’s kind of concerning, but when Grantaire flexes his fingers just like he always does when he’s put his gloves on, Enjolras takes a deep breath.

“Strip,” he says, and then corrects himself. “Undress, I mean. You don’t have to try and make it seductive or anything.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Grantaire says, but obeys. He kind of sucks at striptease stuff anyway.

He thinks he’s starting to understand. This is Enjolras finally letting himself admit he has a massive glove kink, and letting himself watch Grantaire do everything he couldn’t watch before. They spent nearly two years living together and not allowed to watch, and Grantaire barely knew what to do with himself when he didn’t have to look away. But Enjolras _still_ couldn’t let himself watch.

So Grantaire drags their-but-mostly-Enjolras’ shirt off and tosses it into the hamper, standing in the process. He does it all like he’s changing clothes, or getting ready for a comfortable sexless night of sleeping. The only difference is the gloves. He drops his jeans and steps out of them, and those go into the hamper too, but when he’s about to strip out of his underwear, Enjolras says, “Stop.”

Enjolras is starting to get flustered again, but he’s fighting it. His cheeks are pink, his breathing is becoming shallower by the second, but his eyes are dark and determined and _focused_. He stands, and takes Grantaire’s gloved hands in his own, squeezing tight. This too is familiar, almost achingly so. Grantaire wonders how many times he’s just wanted to hold his hand and refused to simply because of a fucking pair of gloves. 

Enjolras does nothing but run his thumbs across Grantaire’s leather-covered knuckles for a long moment, watching intently. “I’ve seen these gloves do so many things,” Enjolras says quietly, like it should tell Grantaire something. It’s another confession, but it’s so vague that Grantaire doesn’t know what he’s trying to admit.

The moment doesn’t last, though – Enjolras lets go of his hands in favor of pulling Grantaire forward and getting a hand in his hair and kissing him, deep and breathless, dragging teeth against Grantaire’s lower lip when he pulls away, looking desperate. “Okay. Okay, I want you to undress me, but – fuck.” He lets go of Grantaire and twists so his back is pressed to Grantaire’s chest, which, right. Makes plenty of sense. Better view.

Grantaire presses his nose into Enjolras’ hair, and makes a point of going slow when he unbuttons his shirt. The buttons are more difficult than they would be with bare hands, but Grantaire has done far more subtle work in these gloves. They’re not _quite_ a second skin, but they’re close enough that he can feel the difference between shirt, undershirt, and the flushed skin beneath.

“Oh my god, you have no idea, Grantaire,” Enjolras breathes out, and when Grantaire is done with the buttons and slides the fabric off of his shoulders, Enjolras gives in to the impatience. He wrenches his undershirt off so viciously that Grantaire’s pretty sure it rips in a couple of places. He twists his head to the side and drags Grantaire’s along with him and kisses him desperately, gasps against his chapped red lips when Grantaire undoes his belt. After that, he goes back to watching Grantaire’s gloved fingers and muttering obscenities.

There’s something absolutely _broken_ in Enjolras’ voice, and that’s the only thing that keeps Grantaire from being completely bowled over in surprise when Enjolras suddenly jerks away, walking until he hits the wardrobe and covers his face with his hands.

Grantaire has no idea what to do.

“It’s nothing you did, I swear, you didn’t do anything wrong, I just – you don’t know, you have _no idea_ and you deserve to know, I can’t not tell you,” Enjolras says. “That’s not fully informed consent.”

Oh god damn it.

Grantaire can relax, though – Enjolras isn’t genuinely freaking out. Or Grantaire thinks he isn’t at least; this isn’t exactly an everyday situation. But while Enjolras hides behind his hands, Grantaire figures that this really was a bad idea. Apparently, it needed communication. So, he takes his gloves off and sits down on the bed, placing them next to his hip. “I can pretty much guarantee I’m okay with whatever you’re-”

“You kill people,” Enjolras blurts out, and Grantaire stares at him. “It’s – fuck, that wasn’t the right way to say it. Or maybe it is, I don’t know. I’m trying to say that I know it’s fucked up but you’re dangerous but not to me and it’s beautiful.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, because he. Well. He really has no clue what to say here.

Enjolras sits down in the chair he brought in, looking completely exhausted as he puts his head in his hands. “I am so sorry, Grantaire,” he says eventually, and it clicks in Grantaire’s mind. It makes sense. “If I could stop-”

Grantaire leans forward to put a hand over Enjolras’ mouth. He wishes he hadn’t taken his gloves off, because he knows what to say now. It took a while, but he knows. Enjolras is watching him with wide, cautious eyes.

“I always did it for you,” Grantaire says simply, and removes his hand. Enjolras frowns, obviously not understanding. “You kill – _killed_ , I guess – for your cause, because you believe in it. But I only ever believed in you.”

“What are you saying?” Enjolras asks.

“I killed someone for you before I even knew your name, if you don’t remember. This part of me isn’t exactly difficult to think about,” Grantaire says, and slowly puts the gloves back on with just a bit of flair, just a little sharper movements. “So really I guess I’m saying that if you want me to kill someone and have a good reason for it, I’ll do it. And if you want me to shine your shoes and you have a good reason for it, I’ll do it. If you want me to do _anything_ , and you have a good reason, I’ll do it.” He smiles at Enjolras. “I’m a readily available little bit of vicious, if you ever need it. And I’m perfectly fine with that.”

“But I’m not,” Enjolras says quietly. “You don’t have to-”

“I don’t _have to_. I know that. That’s the whole point,” Grantaire says, and after a moment of consideration he moves, kneeling in front of the chair and meeting Enjolras’ eyes straight on, level and honest. “I’m all yours. All of me.”

Enjolras still looks torn, like he’s fighting it for some reason. “I shouldn’t-”

“Fuck should. We’re fucked up and in love and it’s _amazing_. There’s no _should_. Not for us,” Grantaire says.

And Enjolras is still uncertain, which is just. This is absurd. It’s ridiculous, and he doesn’t know how to convince Enjolras that it’s _okay_ that he’s fucked up. They both are. He can try to be normal for everyone else, but he doesn’t have to for Grantaire. Not even with this.

Grantaire can be the confident one.

So, Grantaire flexes his fingers for a moment, and then moves one gloved hand up around Enjolras’ neck, pressing just hard enough to keep it from being a caress, but nowhere near strangling. Even with the leather gloves on, he can feel Enjolras’ pulse spike against his thumb, feel the heat of his skin.

“You love me,” Grantaire says, not sure if it’s for Enjolras’ sake or his own. He won’t insult them both with a question of trust. But Enjolras nods as best he can, and Grantaire watches his face as he feels the leather tighten around his throat. His eyes are wide and bright, cheeks flushed, and he definitely likes it. A lot. The faster breaths have nothing to do with the pressure on his neck.

Because it makes things much easier for Grantaire’s half-formed plans, he pulls Enjolras to his feet and pushes him lightly towards the bed, letting go of him in favor of grabbing a few things while Enjolras stares at his (their) ceiling, painfully flushed. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for Enjolras to be covering his face again. At this point, it just makes Grantaire roll his eyes as he pulls his underwear off and tosses them towards the pile of clothing.

“How much do you like those pants?” Grantaire asks, shifting onto the bed. It’d be a shame to ruin them, it really would.

“A lot,” Enjolras says, a definite warning in the words. And Grantaire agrees- they are _fantastic_ pants, fitting him in perfectly in all of the best places. “They’re also expensive, so-”

“Well, that’s what being filthy rich is for,” Grantaire says, and _that_ definitely makes Enjolras drop his hands and look at Grantaire, who is wearing nothing but gloves and is kneeling over his legs with one of his favorite knives in hand.

He makes a completely incoherent noise, some sort of desperate lust-driven attempt to say five thousand things at the same time.

Grantaire has never used a knife in bed, and he sure as fuck isn’t going to start when Enjolras seems unhinged already and Grantaire is still trying desperately to figure out what he wants and how to go about it – he doesn’t do control in bed, and he really likes not being in control in bed. He loves Enjolras concentrating completely on him and knowing what he wants and how he wants it and there being no uncertainty, no fear of getting it _wrong_.

Right now, Grantaire has a thousand fears of ways he could get this wrong, but from the way Enjolras is looking at him right now, the only thing he could do wrong would be stopping.

“You wouldn’t,” Enjolras says, eyes wide, but it’s surprise, with nothing angry in the words. It’s _disbelief_.

Grantaire grins at him, spins his knife in his hand just enough to be sure the light makes it shine just right, and makes it lightning-quick. A few efficient slashes, and he’s smugly watching those fantastic pants fall off of Enjolras, pieces of very expensive fabric falling softly onto the bed.

He was very, very careful about the fabric around Enjolras’ desperately hard cock, though. It leaves him with the single bit of fabric that didn’t just fall off still covering him.

Grantaire is very, very careful about this, because this is his actual knife, the ones he’s worn these exact gloves with to murder people in front of Enjolras – and that’s the reason Enjolras looks about ready to faint from arousal. Faint, or come the moment Grantaire touches his cock.

He presses the flat of the blade against Enjolras’ hip, lightly running his leather-clad fingers across the skin beneath, and uses his other hand to pull the fabric completely off of Enjolras. He cooperates, lifting his hips in what is probably more of an aborted thrust than actually meaning to help, and Grantaire uses it to pull the tattered remains of Enjolras’ pants off the bed.

“Oh fuck,” Enjolras says, finally finding his words again. Words help him find his control again, too, and he lets out a deep shuddering breath. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen now,” he says, and _thank fuck_. Grantaire knows his relief shows – no more fear that he’s going to fuck this up. He knows Enjolras won’t leave him if he fucks up and he knows Enjolras would’ve stopped him if he did something wrong anyway, but the relief leaves him feeling so much more languid. “Look at me, Grantaire.”

Grantaire obeys immediately, and Enjolras looks stunned in the best way possible, and he is so stupidly in love with Enjolras. He keeps his eyes on Enjolras, as told, but can’t help but lean down and press his lips against Enjolras’ other hip, the one he doesn’t have a knife still pressed against. Enjolras doesn’t object, reaching to run fingers through Grantaire’s hair, and this is so, so much better.

“You proved your point,” Enjolras says, voice rough. He clears his throat – still unsettled, but controlling himself. “Okay. I need to know how you’re feeling about the knife.”

“No way in hell I’m fucking around with my knife, Enjolras. That blade is getting nowhere near your skin,” Grantaire says, trying very hard to sound firm. It probably doesn’t work, but Enjolras still nods and leans up to carefully take the knife from Grantaire’s fingers. He sets it carefully on the bedside table.

“And the gloves?” Enjolras asks carefully.

Grantaire’s answer is to bite down, hard, gloved hands sliding up his inner thighs until his thumbs are a hair’s width away from touching the base of Enjolras’ cock. It makes Enjolras fucking _whimper_ , makes him tug so sharply on Grantaire’s hair that it pulls his mouth away from skin, but he bites any other noises down.

“You’re going to fuck me and you are _not_ going to come from it and your hand is going to be wrapped around my cock the entire time,” Enjolras says roughly, and it doesn’t take much tugging to get Grantaire’s mouth away from his hip and onto Enjolras’ lips for a rough kiss. It’s so hard it’s almost painful, their teeth clacking together as Enjolras’ tongue takes him apart and his hands wrap around Grantaire’s, squeezing hard enough to hurt, and it’s so good, this is what it was supposed to be like.

Grantaire’s left hand is moved towards their joined mouths and Enjolras pulls away so his mouth can fucking _dive_ onto Grantaire’s gloved fingers, thank god these gloves are waterproof because he has never seen Enjolras this desperate to get his mouth on Grantaire’s fingers. Which is saying something. He bites at Grantaire’s palm, lets go of his other hand just so he can circle Grantaire’s wrist with his right and grab Grantaire’s hair so hard with his left that there’s absolutely no doubt that Enjolras can force his head anywhere he wants it.

And then Enjolras tightens his grip on Grantaire’s wrist to push his hand against his ass, and Grantaire figures that out pretty fucking quick, knowing better than to try and be delicate with how he thrusts his index finger inside of Enjolras. He bows his head against Grantaire’s collarbone, groaning, and immediately rocks back onto Grantaire’s finger, and holy fuck. Holy fuck, Enjolras is really, really into this, mouth open and panting.

“I believe your other hand is supposed to be occupied right now,” Enjolras says. It’s not particularly commanding, what with how his voice breaks and he’s thrusting against Grantaire, rocking in time with how Grantaire’s finger is pushing roughly in and out, nothing but spit between Enjolras and leather. He’s shaking, but the way Enjolras twists Grantaire’s head up and kisses him messily doesn’t let Grantaire doubt how serious he is about this.

Grantaire does as he’s told, wraps his hand around Enjolras’ cock and starts stroking, but Enjolras pulls away and says, “No, just. Just lightly. That’s too much.”

“Okay, okay, fuck,” Grantaire says, and obeys, and Enjolras is left with a loose grip he can thrust into. Grantaire gives him a second finger, and Enjolras keens, hands snapping to Grantaire’s waist.

“I’m going to put you in those _fucking_ lace gloves and pin you down and fuck you so hard you pass out,” Enjolras says, and oh fuck, he definitely will. Grantaire knows that’s a definite promise and not just idle thoughts out of a fuck-blissed brain. “Third finger, Grantaire, come _on_.”

There is no way in hell there’s enough saliva on his fingers to make that even remotely comfortable, Enjolras is going to be in pain after this, and Grantaire hesitates.

Enjolras knows, because of course Enjolras knows, always five steps ahead, always knowing what Grantaire feels and thinks. He leans down and licks sweat off of the line of Grantaire’s neck, saying, “It’s okay, I promise it’s okay, come on, I want it, I’ve got you, it’s okay,” and how can Grantaire _not_ do it after that? He thrusts a third finger inside and Enjolras hisses out _fuck yes_. His left hand abandons Grantaire’s shoulder to wrap around Grantaire’s gloved hand, tightening it around his cock.

This is all about Enjolras, all about the way Enjolras has his head thrown back and looks like he’s going to explode at any given moment, and Grantaire can’t stop staring, because holy shit. Holy _shit._ Grantaire can’t speak, can barely breathe from just _looking at him_.

“I need you to fuck me,” Enjolras says, breathless, and the hand not currently rubbing all over the gloved hand wrapped around his cock pushes Grantaire down onto the mattress, sliding across his chest like he can’t decide where to touch. “ _Fuck_ , Grantaire, you are just. There is absolutely _nothing_ about you I don’t want, oh my god.”

Enjolras is just fucking _using him_ and it’s amazing, barely waits for Grantaire to have moved his fingers before he’s sliding slow and hot and so fucking tight onto Grantaire’s cock, visibly shaking, and it’s all Grantaire can do to keep up. He matches Enjolras’ frantic pace as best he can, listens to him lose his fucking mind the minute Grantaire raises his free hand and carefully wraps it around Enjolras’ throat again.

And that’s all it takes ( _all_ , fuck, what a horrible word for it). Grantaire squeezes lightly on Enjolras’ throat and Enjolras forces Grantaire’s grip on his cock so tight it has to hurt and he’s coming, coming so hard he shouts loud enough for the entire fucking building to hear it. Grantaire can see his eyes roll back, feels him go completely limp for a moment and Grantaire has to fight the urge to stop and see if he’s okay. It only lasts a few moments of fluttering eyelids and a heaving chest gasping for air, and Grantaire cannot stop staring.

“Oh, that was good,” Enjolras says distantly, in the way that anyone mindlessly blissed out says. Somehow, even loose-limbed and probably with absolutely no idea what way is up, he’s _still_ fucking Grantaire. “You’re so good, Grantaire, that was so fucking good, you have no idea.”

“I can kind of guess,” Grantaire says, feeling a little bit hysterical. This is so, so insane.

Enjolras slides off of him, slowly, and Grantaire shudders against the sheets. He keeps a grip on the wrist of Grantaire’s come-covered gloved hand because _of course he does_. Grantaire’s getting used to this part, at least.

Except apparently not, since Enjolras seems determined to just keep his hand in the air while he gets Grantaire’s back pressed against his chest, keeping him practically snuggled against him, arm wrapped around his torso. And Grantaire can do snuggling, and if Enjolras doesn’t want him to come, he can do that. It’s kind of, well, _cruel_ , but this is nice too. He’s sitting between Enjolras’ legs, and Enjolras has his nose buried in Grantaire’s sweat-damp hair, and he’s holding Grantaire’s other hand tightly, and it’s lovely, except for the part that Grantaire really, really wants to come.

“One of these days, I’m going to do the same thing for you,” Enjolras says, soft and sincere and so fucking loving and Grantaire’s not quite sure what the fuck that means but he’s okay with that. He leans back against Enjolras’ chest and shuts his eyes and then holy fuck, holy _fuck_ , Enjolras is pressing Grantaire’s hand down against his cock so hard. His fingers scramble against the sheets, but Enjolras’ grip on his hand – both hands – just tightens, starts rubbing up and down. It leaves Grantaire rutting against their hands, biting his lip because he wants to _hear_. “Fuck, I’m going to be so creative, Grantaire. So very, very _creative_ , just for you, because you’re mine and you deserve it, don’t you?”

“I don’t deserve-” Grantaire begins mindlessly, but Enjolras tightens their grip, and Grantaire can’t do anything but thrust.

“Stop insulting _my husband_ ,” Enjolras says, the words tinged with glee because they’re some of his favorite words, because Enjolras loves him, Enjolras wants to keep him forever, and he’s doing that content humming noise of his, biting at Grantaire’s earlobe. Grantaire is completely helpless, can’t even try to disobey when Enjolras simply says, “Come for me.”

He does.

Grantaire leans back against Enjolras, panting and keeping his eyes closed tight and doing his best to wind down as Enjolras smugly licks away at Grantaire’s leather-clad hand.

“So,” Grantaire finally manages to say.

“Yes?” Enjolras says, already sounding smooth and collected, which is completely unfair. But expected, since it’s Enjolras.

“So I’m sensing you like the gloves,” Grantaire says.

“What could have possibly given you that idea,” Enjolras says dryly.

“Natural intuition,” Grantaire says. “Also, you stare at my hands a lot.”

Enjolras laughs, and easily rolls them into the sheets.


	3. Paris - 8 months after Gnomon

“You’re sure about this?” Grantaire asks, because Enjolras is holding his hand almost painfully tight. He’s used to this by now, but the tenseness that goes with it? Not so much. Enjolras looks downright twitchy.

Not that Grantaire can blame him.

“You can go with the standard invitation route still,” Grantaire reminds him. “Not a soul on this planet would call that cowardly.”

“It’s not cowardice I’m worried about,” Enjolras says, but he’s leading them down the row of almost disgustingly wealthy homes. “I can do this. If you can deal with your sister, I can deal with my parents.”

“Our situations are kind of different, Enjolras,” Grantaire says as delicately as he can manage when Enjolras is tugging him along at a brisk pace.

“Things are different now,” Enjolras says. He speaks like someone trying to convince themselves of something more than the person they’re actually speaking with. “Any parent would be proud of a son who became a national hero and political leader.”

“Any _good_ parent would be,” Grantaire mutters, and he wants a cigarette so bad, but he’s not going to let go of Enjolras’ hand.

“I’m respectable now,” Enjolras continues, and Grantaire’s starting to actually get worried about him. “We’re respectably married. And they’ll love you, everyone loves you, so-”

“Okay, slow down,” Grantaire says, as soothingly as he can, and stops their frantic speed walking so he can wrap his arms around Enjolras.

Enjolras doesn’t hug back. He does shake, and he does lean his head down against Grantaire’s shoulder, but he doesn’t hug back. It leaves Grantaire on shaky ground; he isn’t usually the comforting one. At all. Enjolras is the one that puts up with all of Grantaire’s shit and keeps sticking around for some reason. Grantaire thinks about trying to figure out how to be reassuring, but he settles on being himself.

“You know I don’t give a fuck about your parents, right?” Grantaire asks.

“I’m aware of that, yes,” Enjolras says blandly.

“If they’re rude to you, I’m going to get you out of there,” Grantaire says. “Because that’s my job. You do shit, and I make sure you’re safe while you’re doing it.”

Grantaire is the safety net.

The useless alcoholic chain-smoking safety net.

“Or there’s a place a couple streets away that has really good gelato, we could just go there instead,” Grantaire says. “It’d probably be more fun.”

“I need to do this, Grantaire,” Enjolras says firmly. He’s calmer now, thank fuck.

Grantaire sighs. “No, you don’t,” he says, but doesn’t object when Enjolras gently pulls out of his arms and starts walking them the distance left to the enormous gate. Grantaire can’t help but frown at the size of them. “Jesus, how much money do these people have?”

“We have more,” Enjolras says easily, which means he probably compared their finances before deciding now was the time to go confront his parents for the first time in fuck knows how many years.

There’s a lot of stuff they don’t talk about, mostly out of habit. Family is one of them. The whole Michelle thing makes it a little more awkward, what with Dax desperately trying to trick Grantaire into telling him the things Michelle doesn’t (much to Enjolras’ incredulity – Dax trying to trick Grantaire into telling him something? _Dax Mannon_ tricking _Grantaire?_ That’s about as likely as a rabbit taking out a crocodile. If Enjolras himself has trouble tricking Grantaire, no fucking way _Dax Mannon_ can do it).

And that just means Grantaire has no idea what to expect.

Enjolras has a tight grip on his hand, palm damp, but he looks perfectly composed while he approaches the intercom and presses the _call_ button immediately. It rings for about two seconds before a light, airy woman’s voice comes on the line, saying “Good morning, how can I,” and then dissolving into Russian swearing.

There’s a camera, Grantaire realizes.

Also, he thinks he just figured out why Enjolras speaks Russian so fluently.

“Hello, Ulyana,” Enjolras says, waving briefly at the camera. “May I come in?”

“Of course, of course,” Ulyana says, obviously elated, and the gate smoothly swings open for them. They’re barely three steps in before the main entrance to the fucking _huge_ building swings open and a dark-haired woman in a stereotypical maid outfit comes hurtling straight towards Enjolras and wraps him up in a tight hug. Grantaire loosens his grip on Enjolras’ hand, meaning to pull away, but Enjolras immediately clenches his fingers around Grantaire, and that’s a pretty definite sign right there. 

He stands there and watches Ulyana the middle-aged maid squeeze Enjolras to death while babbling Russian at him. Enjolras is carefully speaking Russian back, glancing over at Grantaire over her head. “Are my parents in at the moment?” he asks, undoubtedly dropping the Russian for Grantaire’s benefit.

“Your mother is out by the pool,” Ulyana says, finally releasing Enjolras. She looks close to tears.

Enjolras sighs. “Is she dressed?”

Ulyana shrugs, which probably means no. “I’ll go tell her you and…”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says before Grantaire can try to introduce himself. “We’re married.”

Ulyana twitches slightly, but she gives Grantaire a small smile and says, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too. Thanks for raising him,” Grantaire says, because he can already tell who the real mother in this equation is and he really does not want to deal with them awkwardly trying to avoid that fact. Ulyana blushes but looks so _pleased_ that it kind of hurts to look at, and she gives Grantaire a pat to the cheek before moving back into the house. Mansion. Palace. It is really fucking big.

“So,” Grantaire says.

“I should warn you about my mother,” Enjolras says, and after a moment he finally leads them in through the door and jesus _fuck_ why would you ever need this much space? He feels like he just walked into a museum more than a house. It also explains why Enjolras didn’t think a damn thing about bombing the senate – he practically lived in a miniaturized Palais du Luxembourg. There are even more maids, wandering around and staring at them but never daring to actually speak.

After a moment where Grantaire gapes and Enjolras fidgets, he starts leading them deeper into the mansion and the huge ornate rooms until they’re in the garden that sits between the wings of the mansion. Naturally. Every mansion needs to be three times the size it looks on the outside, doesn’t it?

The first thing Grantaire notices about the garden is the pool, since he was expecting to see that. It’s huge and gorgeous, with fish sculptures spitting water into the already pristine Caribbean blue waters.

The second thing is the pool boys. There’s three of them and they are very attractive. Nothing even close to Enjolras, of course, but nobody gets close to Enjolras in levels of hotness. Point is, they are very nice eye candy.

“Wait, fuck, I need to warn you,” Enjolras says urgently, and turns Grantaire to face him, hands tight on his shoulders. “Mother is-”

“Mother is _what_ , Junior?” a woman asks, voice dry and sultry and when Grantaire turns to look with a sinking feeling, he is truly horrified that his first thought upon seeing his mother-in-law is _I’d fuck her._

Enjolras’ mother looks like Enjolras if he was middle-aged and had brown eyes and a razor-sharp nose and holy fuck that is a lot of curve on her. There’s the occasional strand of white in her cropped golden hair. It’s shorter than Enjolras’ hair, a bob cut that is cutthroat fashionable. She’s also wearing a short nearly-transparent teal dress and Grantaire is absolutely going to hell.

A little bit frantically, Grantaire glances back at Enjolras and yeah, no. As hot as Enjolras’ mom may be, he is ten thousand times more attracted to Enjolras.

“There’s a pool boy waiting list,” Enjolras says resignedly, and that makes a lot of sense.

“I thought we made ourselves clear about your presence in our home,” Enjolras’ mother says, not quite icily, but definitely unwelcoming.

Grantaire slides away from Enjolras’ grip in favor of lighting a cigarette, because that’s a very good idea right now. When Enjolras doesn’t respond to his mother, Grantaire reaches into Enjolras’ coat pocket and says, “He’s here to personally invite you to our wedding.” 

It’s only another moment before Grantaire’s holding the invitation out to her. It takes a long, tense moment, but she takes it carefully from his hand.

“You’re getting married,” she says a little numbly.

“We’re already married,” Grantaire says, taking another drag of his cigarette and barely avoiding the urge to blow smoke straight in her face. “Twice, actually. This is just the wedding.” And since Enjolras is terrifyingly silent and Grantaire immediately loathes her for the way she’s frowning at Enjolras like a particularly irritating puppy, he keeps talking. “Me, I didn’t want to invite you two, but Enjolras actually cares about you for some reason, so-”

“I understood your reasons,” Enjolras says suddenly, staring straight into his mother’s eyes. “I understood and respected your reasons for disowning me. I’m not trying to get you to take me back. All I want is for you and Father to see what I’ve done, and what I’m going to create, and see who I really am.”

“Seeing who you really are is why you aren’t welcome,” his mother says, almost hissing the words out. “The things you’ve done, the person you’ve become, Junior - you need _help_. Psychiatric help. And since you refuse to see that, and you just keep doing these _things_ \- it doesn’t matter what you’re doing now, or what the people think of you. You’re still a complete disgrace, and you need help, and as you are? Knowing what you’ve done? Your father and I would rather _die_ than have people know-”

And Grantaire doesn’t even know what he’s doing when he lifts a hand and says, “Okay, you’re done. Shut the fuck up. You don’t get to talk anymore, because your death could definitely be arranged if you keep up like that.”

Her mouth drops open, gaping at him.

Grantaire plucks the invitation out of her fingers, and grabs hold of Enjolras’ hand, nice and tight. It’s awkward with the cigarette, but he doesn’t give a fuck, and he hasn’t wanted to strangle someone this badly in a very, very, _very_ long time.

“At least you’ve got your reputation,” Grantaire says, and drags Enjolras away while she’s still shocked and stammering and outraged.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says. “Grantaire, you can’t-”

“Yes I can, yes I did, we’re leaving,” Grantaire states. But there’s still something they can do right, so he stops and hands Enjolras the invitation and says, “Go give this to Ulyana.”

He can tell Enjolras wants to object, or say something, or do something Grantaire can’t even hope to predict. It’s that dangerously stunned glint in his eyes and the way his mouth is just a little bit dropping open.

“And what are you going to do while I do that?” Enjolras asks carefully.

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “I solemnly swear I’m not going to murder your mother.”

Enjolras hesitates, because he is very smart and knows that’s not a vow that he won’t brutally mutilate her or something, but it satisfies him. He hesitates, though, still not leaving and choosing to just stare at Grantaire some more for some reason, so Grantaire rolls his eyes.

He means to tell Enjolras to just get going already because Grantaire wants to get out of here as quickly as possible, but he finds his lips occupied. Enjolras leans forward and presses his lips to Grantaire’s, soft and sweet, and Grantaire ends up smiling, because these kinds of kisses are some of his favorites, sharing pure ridiculous sappy love.

“I’ll meet you outside,” Enjolras says, pressing another kiss to Grantaire’s cheek, and then walks away.

Which is an excellent opportunity for Grantaire.

He heads back out to the pool, where Enjolras’ mother is standing with a hand over her eyes and her teeth grinding against each other in frustration or rage or aggravation or some other emotion Grantaire really doesn’t give a shit about.

“Hi again,” Grantaire says, and her hand drops so she can glare at him.

“What do you want?” Enjolras’ mother bites out.

“I just want you to come inside for about 45 seconds,” Grantaire says simply, once again fighting the urge to blow smoke in her face, and simply turns around and heads back into the mansion.

She’s enough like Enjolras to be intrigued, and follows Grantaire at what she probably thinks is a safe distance. He stops in the room where he and Enjolras parted, turning around to watch her face.

It doesn’t take long at all for the shriek to come, just like Grantaire expected. It’s high and full of emotion and happiness, accompanied by joyful Russian and all sorts of love, Ulyena gushing over her boy’s marriage.

Enjolras’ mother’s expression goes from shock, to outrage, to realization, and finally to the jealousy and shame Grantaire knew was coming. It settles hard on her, and she glares at Grantaire through it, like it’s somehow his fault.

“Like I said earlier,” Grantaire says, and walks away, letting his words echo through their unnecessarily enormous mansion. They hit her on all sides this way, cocooning her. “At least you’ve got your reputation, because you sure as fuck don’t have Enjolras.”

Grantaire waits outside, but doesn’t have to wait for long. Enjolras comes trotting out of the mansion with a small pleased quirk on his lips, and it grows into an actual smile when he sees Grantaire. That’s something that will never stop making Grantaire’s heart stutter for a beat or two.

“She’s excited,” he says, just in case Grantaire couldn’t tell.

“I heard,” Grantaire says, and follows when Enjolras walks out of the still-open gates, kept at the ready like they already knew Enjolras wouldn’t be sticking around for very long. “Are you okay?”

“That wasn’t exactly a surprise, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, which isn’t an answer, but Grantaire lets it slide. He sighs, glaring at the road they walk down. “They would never approve of anything that would change the status quo. I should’ve known that going about it legally wouldn’t make any real difference.”

Grantaire doesn’t even think about bringing up the part where apparently Enjolras’ mom thinks he’s insane.

“Biological parents are overrated,” Grantaire says. “Fuck knows mine were awful.”

The words make Enjolras slow, hovering at Grantaire’s side and watching him carefully. “Oh?”

“They either ignored us or screamed at us,” Grantaire says. “They only noticed you existed if they thought you’d done something bad.” He gives Enjolras a tight-lipped smile. “It got worse after Michelle left, but that just made it even easier to run away.”

“How much worse?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire just shrugs. He doesn’t really feel like swapping traumatic childhood stories right now, and he’s pretty sure Enjolras doesn’t either. Besides, it’s in the past. It happened. He’s survived and moved on, into the wonderful world of Enjolras.

“Want gelato?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras sighs. “Fine.”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Grantaire says, with enough blatant innuendo coloring his words that Enjolras will actually fucking pick up on it. He’s a lot better at it now that they’re a reliable thing (fuck, who is Grantaire kidding, he is so, _so_ easy for Enjolras, the right kind of eyebrow quirk and he’d be on his knees).

“You’d do that anyway,” Enjolras says, but there’s amusement in his voice, thank god.

Grantaire grins unrepentantly and drops his cigarette, crushing it right in front of one of the obnoxiously expensive mansions’ gates. “Just buy me dessert for lunch, rich boy.”


	4. Paris - 14 months after Gnomon

Grantaire spends a lot of time just sitting and sketching and wasting time while Enjolras goes off doing politician things. Enjolras attends every single sitting of the National Assembly, for the entire time, which is apparently really weird, but whatever. Sometimes, on the days when almost nobody else is there, Grantaire sits next to him and sketches and nobody dares to say a damn thing. There seems to be a very strange compromise – if Enjolras comes unarmed and wearing a suit (even though he couldn’t keep a tie tied if Grantaire’s life depended on it), nobody does more than give them confused or irritated or more than a little bit spooked Looks.

Some (most) days, Grantaire doesn’t really tag along. He likes Paris a lot more than he likes politics, and even though he likes Enjolras more than he likes Paris, the whole politics thing makes the scale a lot more even than if Enjolras was, say, gardening. If Enjolras was gardening, Grantaire would be there. But the thought of Enjolras gardening is just _really weird_.

But the point is, Grantaire is sitting on one of the benches strewn about the Palais Bourbon and sketching and ignoring the resigned frowns at his cigarette – at this point, the staff just leaves him an ash tray and Grantaire is considerate enough to use it. He has a lurking suspicion that Enjolras told them it’s either dealing with Grantaire smoking, or dealing with Grantaire narrowly fighting the impulse to be drunk off his ass or too high to realize he needs to be at least mildly well-behaved. He’s drawing monsters (because why not?) when Enjolras strides around the corner looking ready to kill people, which isn’t good, since Grantaire knows this is _exactly_ what he looks like when he’s really genuinely ready to kill people.

He can tell the moment Enjolras spots him, since the tightness in his shoulders vanishes and he lets out a tiny sigh and his expression goes from murderous to only ready-to-maim. Grantaire takes a single long drag from his cigarette and extinguishes it with a simple pinch, putting it in the ash tray before Enjolras reaches him. Interns and politicians and general staff part for him, and Grantaire watches, amused.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras snaps when he’s about twenty steps away.

“Yes, dear,” Grantaire says, deadpan as he turns back to sketching because he’s incapable of taking an enraged Enjolras seriously. Enjolras needs someone to never take him seriously. He’s at about an eight on the explosion scale, and it’s probably best if Grantaire is the target instead of someone who might call the police.

He’s too busy making a point of ignoring Enjolras to realize what’s going on until Enjolras has grabbed the sketchpad, tossed it to the side, and is suddenly straddling him. Except it’s not quite straddling. It’s some sort of sprawled in his lap kind of thing, accompanied with Enjolras just kind of flopping on him, arms over his shoulders, head immediately tucked against the side of his neck, and it’s, uh. It’s kind of weird.

“Shut up,” Enjolras says.

“What the fuck,” Grantaire says.

“Shut _up_ ,” Enjolras repeats, and he fucking nuzzles into Grantaire’s neck, like it’s 8:30 on a Sunday morning instead of the middle of the day surrounded by a major governing body of France. Enjolras is wearing a three piece suit and his shiny dress shoes are hanging off the edge of the bench and Grantaire has no idea what’s happening.

“I’m sensing something happened,” Grantaire says.

“Hug back. We’re married,” Enjolras says.

“Okay then,” Grantaire says, and complies. He wouldn’t label what Enjolras is doing as a _hug_ , but now doesn’t seem like a time for semantics. He wraps his arms around Enjolras cautiously, and after Enjolras lets out a small puff of air against his neck, Grantaire puts a careful hand in his hair.

“This is so _slow_ ,” Enjolras whines.

“I could still kill someone for you,” Grantaire offers, and means it.

“That’s really tempting right now,” Enjolras says, and snuggles even closer, and Jesus, Grantaire is going to end up embarrassing himself here. It probably isn’t even clicking in Enjolras’ mind that this is kind of _intimate_ , but if Enjolras needs cuddling, he will get cuddling. “I’m reevaluating this plan.”

Grantaire really doesn’t want Enjolras to go back to killing people, because Enjolras really, really doesn’t like killing people. So he says, “You don’t have to do everything yourself, you know.”

“I know that,” Enjolras says, in that tone of voice which means that he knows it but doesn’t approve. He sighs against Grantaire’s neck. “Fucking _Leclaire_. Politicians are so _stupid_.”

“This isn’t exactly a groundbreaking epiphany,” Grantaire says, and is proud to say he’s actually not just kind of grabbing at Enjolras anymore. A lot of skill is needed to hug someone sprawled all over you in a public place, and Grantaire is a quick learner. “We hunted them down for a reason. If you-”

“Shut up and just hug me,” Enjolras says harshly, and Grantaire obeys. He shuts up and closes his eyes and listens to the awkward footsteps around them as Enjolras does his best to just melt into Grantaire’s skin.

“Is there anything I can do?” Grantaire asks quietly, after a few minutes of relative silence. Enjolras is breathing steadier, lighter, obviously calmer than when he hunted Grantaire down.

“You’re already helping,” Enjolras says firmly, and lightly kisses Grantaire’s neck before drawing away to sit next to him like a sane and reasonable person. “Thank you.”

Grantaire grins at him, and goes back to his sketchbook – their definition of normalcy isn’t remotely _normal_ , but it’s still helpful if Enjolras needs to calm down. “Of course. We’re _married_ , after all. If you want to barnacle me in public, hey, it’s your right - not like that!” That was absolutely the wrong thing to say and he knows it the minute the words are out of his mouth, but even the immediate backpedaling doesn’t keep Enjolras from looking absolutely horrified. “No no no. You didn’t – fuck.” Grantaire looks around and then thinks fuck it and drops his sketchpad so he can grab Enjolras and hustle them into the first empty room he can find.

“I never meant to,” Enjolras begins, but Grantaire cuts him off with a sharp, fierce kiss that does a very good job of making Enjolras shut up. It’s brief, but it leaves Enjolras looking surprisingly dazed.

“Enjolras. You do not need to ask permission to cuddle,” Grantaire says firmly. “When I said it’s _your right_ , I was referring to the fact that we are partners and you have the right to ask for absolutely anything. You barely ask for a fucking kiss, let alone sex, you are _not_ taking the tiny bit of spontaneity left in our physical relationship away from me, do you understand me? Besides, it’s not like I’m going to say no.”

“That’s the point,” Enjolras says simply, because he takes this whole consent is sexy thing of his way too seriously. And he’s starting to look guilty again. “I shouldn’t have done that. I knew you were uncomfortable-”

“It’s a _hug_ , Enjolras, oh my fucking god,” Grantaire snaps, and runs a hand down his face. “Okay. Are you done for the day?”

Enjolras’ _yes_ is spoken with that blend of indignation and disdain that means he got kicked out again.

“Then we are having this conversation now,” Grantaire decides, and points him towards the first seat he can find. They’re in one of those rooms with a long-outdated purpose, a small room with lovely architecture and a massive mirror on one side of the room. There’s a simple table and chairs in the room, but that’s all, and Grantaire genuinely has no idea what this room is meant to be used as. He tries to ignore that curiosity and instead concentrates on Enjolras.

“Grantaire, you’re very…prone to agreeing with me,” Enjolras says, hesitant enough that he’s obviously not looking forward to this conversation, and also probably has no clue how to go about talking about this. “I want you to be making your own decisions, not just following mine.”

“I get that,” Grantaire says, and tries to figure out how to phrase this in a way that Enjolras might actually listen to. Maybe. “But you get to want things too. Hugging without a written invitation is perfectly fine and you need to stop freaking out about it.”

Enjolras doesn’t look appeased.

This obviously needs another approach.

He puts a hand on either side of Enjolras’ face, keeping him looking straight into Grantaire’s eyes. “People can approve things before they start, we’ve already established that,” he says, and Enjolras gives him a confirming nod, thank god. “Hugging is approved. Kissing is approved. Shit that you see fifteen-year-olds do on the train are approved. That’s a constant, and I will never ever have problems with it. Okay?”

Enjolras is looking at him in a way that Grantaire should probably be able to read. He can’t. It just looks assessing, calculating in that Grantaire-related way he gets sometimes. “You can approve things beforehand, but you can also change your mind-”

“Enjolras, I nearly stabbed a knife through your eye socket when I changed my mind and you didn’t listen,” Grantaire says as calmly as he can. “I think we’ll be fine.”

“Approval beforehand,” Enjolras mutters, like this is some sort of epiphany or something.

Grantaire sighs and releases Enjolras’ head in favor of lighting a cigarette. He watches Enjolras through the entire process. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Enjolras says, bizarrely easily.

He is very obviously making plans.

Grantaire just shakes his head, and resigns himself to having to approve forty different types of snuggling.

\----------

Grantaire is not approving snuggling.

He never even knew half of the shit Enjolras is asking about had names, let alone five different variations. It’s all remained relatively tame, since there was an unspoken agreement that if it involves pain for pain’s sake it’s not going to happen. Unless it’s Enjolras’ thing for Grantaire’s knives and that’s still in negotiation because Grantaire’s willing to try it, but anything associated with death near Enjolras takes some time to get over.

By now, he’s just used to it. Questions just slide past, indulgently answered and then forgotten.

The morning starts like most of their mornings start – Grantaire reluctantly fights his way out of Enjolras’ arms (and legs and head and elbows and knees, lots of knee) and Enjolras grumbles and whines about it until Grantaire finally wakes him up. Waking Enjolras up means sex about half of the time, but this particular morning starts with Enjolras groaning and finally zombie-walking his way out of bed to slump against Grantaire’s shoulder and say, “I need you to know I love you.”

Grantaire stares at him.

“And I’d never hurt you, not really, but I love you a lot and I’d do anything for you,” Enjolras continues, so earnest his eyes are bright and practically shimmering with emotion, it is really fucking weird. “And you can always say no! To anything!”

“Are you feeling okay?” Grantaire asks with a frown, shifting so that Enjolras is clinging to his waist instead of being slumped against his shoulder. It’s a better angle for checking pupils.

“I’m fine, perfectly fine. I’m just worried about today. Big day,” Enjolras says, and right, Grantaire remembers. There’s some big vote about something or other today, Grantaire doesn’t really give a fuck beyond the fact it’s been driving Enjolras and the rest of ABC insane. He’s pretty sure there was a technically-unaffiliated riot a couple days ago about it.

It definitely makes Enjolras’ current weirdness more understandable. A nervous Enjolras is a ridiculous Enjolras.

“Are you feeling okay?” Enjolras asks, suddenly far more alert, and presses a hand to Grantaire’s forehead. And then cheek. And then he opens up Grantaire’s mouth with his thumb and fuck no, Grantaire is not getting his tonsils checked. He rolls his eyes and bats Enjolras’ hand away.

“Don’t you have to go get ready for your big day?” Grantaire asks, and that seems to get through to Enjolras. He presses a soft sweet kiss to Grantaire’s lips with a smile and then heads for the shower.

And it’s normal. Grantaire comes along to the National Assembly because Enjolras gives him this hopeful eyebrow quirk after he’s showered and suited and still completely incapable of keeping his tie tied, which means Grantaire’s sitting around drawing charcoal horses while people rush around before the vote. Grantaire’s pretty used to ignoring it all, just waiting for Enjolras, who is suddenly walking around the corner and headed straight for Grantaire, what the fuck.

He glances at the nearest clock and ends up completely confused because the vote is going on right now, but Enjolras is here instead. Grantaire frowns, grinding his cigarette into the ashtray with more force than is generally needed because Enjolras isn’t exactly looking like a reasonable person. Or remotely sane. 

Grantaire stands up, setting his sketchpad and charcoal aside and quickly rubbing his fingers on a paper towel to get some of the charcoal off. “What’s wrong?”

Enjolras doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even stop walking. He just grabs a fistful of Grantaire’s shirt and tows him into an empty room – which is familiar, Grantaire realizes when he recognizes the chairs and the unnecessary huge mirror. Enjolras finally releases him to shut the door.

“What’s wrong, Enjolras?” Grantaire asks again, trying to coax him into ranting or whining or whatever it is he needs to do. Maybe he got kicked out just before the vote? Or he’s just desperately fighting the urge to bash someone’s head in? He reaches a hand out to where Enjolras is standing with his forehead pressed against the ornately carved white wooden doors, and Enjolras catches it in his own.

Grantaire expects handholding. They do a lot of handholding.

Instead, Enjolras has a painfully tight grip on Grantaire’s wrist, and uses his other hand to roughly press Grantaire up against the wall. It’s not a slam, not quite, but that’s mostly because Grantaire trips along with it, catching himself just enough with his free hand to not bang his head against the wall. He stares at Enjolras and his very determined expression before Enjolras gets a tight fistful of Grantaire’s hair and kisses him, dragging his lips almost viciously against Grantaire’s.

And he didn’t ask. Grantaire’s mind catches on that, staring at Enjolras as they kiss, Grantaire doing his best to keep up and fuck, Enjolras bites Grantaire’s lower lip and slams Grantaire’s hand against the wall above them and he can feel a picture frame above him, oh fuck, his fingertips are grazing old golden leaf. Enjolras didn’t ask, didn’t wait for permission, and Grantaire has no idea what that means, beyond that his heart’s beating so quickly he can hear it in his ears as Enjolras’ tongue slides against his own.

Enjolras pulls away brutally fast, and Grantaire is panting, staring at him with wide eyes because he has no idea what’s going on. He might be hallucinating, but it seems really fucking unlikely he’s hallucinating the way Enjolras’ breath is hot against his lips and how his hand drags through Grantaire’s hair. He’s not used to how Enjolras’ fingertips are digging in so hard it hurts. It’s like Enjolras is barely keeping a leash on the urge to rip Grantaire apart.

And now that he’s looking, it seems even more likely – Enjolras is shaking slightly, just enough that Grantaire doesn’t know if it’s really directed at him or it’s something related to the vote or what. He’s gritting his teeth and pressing their foreheads together hard and sharp and Grantaire wants to try and calm him down, wants to do something to help him, but he doesn’t even know what he needs to fix. Grantaire takes a deep breath. “I’m thinking you had a bad encounter with someone or-”

“No,” Enjolras says quietly, practically whispering it, and fuck, fuck, Grantaire remembers that the door doesn’t have a lock, there’s nothing but two unnecessarily tall wooden doors between them and the rest of the building. But when Grantaire tries to move away to do something about that – probably relocate, really – Enjolras holds him tightly in place, roughly jamming his leg between Grantaire’s to keep him pinned as he snaps, “No, Grantaire.”

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says automatically, wishing he could see more of Enjolras beyond his burning eyes and feeling how quick his breath is ghosting across Grantaire’s lips, he has no idea what’s going through Enjolras’ mind and it’s freaking him out. A lot. “I’m just worried, I know you had things to do, important things, and if you’re here with me you’re not there and I am dead serious, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras says, and slides his hand down from Grantaire’s wrist to hold Grantaire’s chin, soft but firm. He kisses him sweet, and slow, and Grantaire tries to chase his lips when he pulls away, but Enjolras’ grip keeps him from moving. When Enjolras nips at his jaw, Grantaire can’t do anything but let him, still pressed, stunned, against the wall, because Enjolras still doesn’t ask, and Grantaire still has no idea what’s going on with Enjolras.

Enjolras is kissing him deep and filthy with so much tongue Grantaire feels like he’s going to choke and love every second of it when he drops his hands and Grantaire barely avoids yelping like a surprised puppy when he drops his hands directly into the back of Grantaire’s pants. There’s nothing careful about it, nothing even the slightest bit polite or hesitant about the efficient way he slides his hands down his hips and directly into Grantaire’s pants, right beneath his underwear, not even the slightest bit concerned about whether or not he’s welcome. But his thigh is suddenly pressing hard against Grantaire’s cock and he is so welcome, Enjolras is so, so welcome.

Grantaire gasps. “Fucking hell, Enjolras, the door-”

“Tell me you love me,” Enjolras says, commands, and uses his grip on Grantaire’s ass to practically shove him onto Enjolras’ thigh and Grantaire’s hands shoot forward to grip Enjolras’ shoulders and holy shit he doesn’t know what’s going on here. He’s breathing so hard, just from this, trying to be quiet when he groans and leans his head against Enjolras’ shoulder. “Grantaire, tell me-”

“I love you,” Grantaire says, because he really does. A lot. And Enjolras has moved one of his hands to the fly of Grantaire’s pants, undoing them with the efficiency one develops after doing the same thing with the same pair of pants for nearly a year. He’s stripped within moments, leaving Grantaire’s pants and underwear trapped around his knees and his bare cock pressed against the fine wool of Enjolras’ suit pants, tight and rough. “Oh fuck, Enjolras, I love you, what are you doing?”

“I should be in there trying to make the country a more equal place for every citizen,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire nods, grip on Enjolras’ shoulders loosening slightly because this at least is normal. He sounds very Enjolras-y. It doesn’t last long, though – Enjolras lifts Grantaire’s head with a demanding hand in his hair, but doesn’t kiss him like Grantaire expected. Enjolras is making it so that Grantaire has no choice but to look straight at him. “That’s what I should be doing, Grantaire. But I’m going to fuck you instead.”

Grantaire’s mouth drops open because holy shit, what the fuck, that is the hottest thing ever and so stupid of him. He doesn’t know if he wants to demand Enjolras go back to saving the world or just kneel and start begging. He settles for just staring and letting his eyes flutter shut when Enjolras starts biting at his neck and trying to stay at least a little bit quiet when Enjolras starts pressing his thigh harder against Grantaire’s cock.

“Ignore the door,” Enjolras says, and fuck, there’s no way in hell Grantaire can ignore it now. He has no idea what’s happening, but Enjolras knows, he always knows. When Enjolras pushes his back against the wall, Grantaire goes willingly, cooperates with the hands pulling his shirt off and steps out of his shoes and pants and underwear. It’s not until Enjolras makes a pleased noise that Grantaire realizes he’s completely naked and someone could come in through the door at any moment and Enjolras obviously doesn’t give a fuck. Enjolras just keeps dancing his fingers across Grantaire’s bare skin and staring so intently into Grantaire’s eyes that it’s hypnotic.

“Can I just put a door in front of the chair?” Grantaire asks, vaguely dazed and desperate and really he just keeps imagining some horrible scandal when someone walks in on them. Enjolras’ lips quirk, and fuck, Grantaire hadn’t even realized how stupid he’s acting right now, can’t even string a fucking sentence together, he’s so going to ruin this and Enjolras didn’t even ask, this is obviously about making Enjolras happy and – 

Arms wrap around him, and Enjolras is holding him, kissing him on the cheek and saying, “Ignore the door, Grantaire. It’s okay. This is going to be so good, I promise, it’s going to be so good.”

“You have plans,” Grantaire realizes.

“Just one, mostly,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire doesn’t care whether or not it’s in Enjolras’ plans or whatever, doesn’t care that Enjolras is going to have to walk out in these pants, he drops to the floor. From the way Enjolras’ hand clamps down on his head, it is definitely not on the agenda. “Jesus, Grantaire, just. Shit.” Enjolras has to stop and take a deep breath, and fuck, Grantaire can tell he’s still shaking, a near-constant shuddering. “You get one choice here. Are you paying attention?”

“I am,” Grantaire says firmly, probably far too loudly. It’s probably definitely too loud, since Enjolras quickly glances towards the door.

“Extra incentive for this, then,” Enjolras mutters, and moves away for a moment, coming back with a cloth bag that Grantaire’s never seen in his entire life. He drops it onto the nearby table and takes his own tie off, casual and blatantly showy, genuinely goofy in the way where Enjolras doesn’t ever realize he’s doing something ridiculous. But when Grantaire rolls his eyes and moves to stand, any goofiness snaps away as he orders, “No, stay down.” Enjolras looks at him, his mind obviously whirring away. “Actually, face the wall.”

It seems ridiculous, what with Enjolras just telling him to pay attention, but he nods and turns and god, he’d forgotten how beautiful the room is. Fuck, they’re going to have sex in this room aren’t they, and holy shit for a moment Grantaire can’t breathe just from the architecture, the thought of them sweating and panting and fucking like there’s no tomorrow in well-preserved historical beauty of a building and fuck, what is wrong with him, he sounds like some sort of kinky fucked up arsonist.

But Enjolras picked this. Enjolras probably knew Grantaire’d get off on it before Grantaire did. And Enjolras left an important session just to come have sex. Which he didn’t ask for. Enjolras is just taking him, and it’s great, but there’s something he’s missing. They’ve had sex hundreds of times, Grantaire can tell Enjolras is waiting for something. He’s still fully in control of himself, almost like he’s rehearsed. It’s probably related to the bag, Grantaire figures. He also has no idea what it actually is. Grantaire tries to run it back in his head.

Seemingly spontaneous sex in a place with beautiful art and a definite threat of voyeurism – but not quite, Grantaire realizes, since there’s the vote going, which means Enjolras should be in there but instead he’s prioritized Grantaire. He’s doing this because of Grantaire.

It’s not quite a sinking feeling when he realizes he’s practically listing off his own fantasies. If anything, it’s a warm feeling that is soft and awkward and he feels like a fool for having them in the first place but Enjolras is actually doing them. Which he did promise, but Grantaire wasn’t quite expecting this.

He is expecting Enjolras in a skirt, or his tie quickly looped around and gagging him, or something. They haven’t really done the gag thing, mostly because Enjolras hasn’t seemed interested and Grantaire is more than happy to babble during sex. And Enjolras is wearing a lovely tie today, so Grantaire anticipates it, almost certain there’s going to be a tie stuck in his mouth at any moment, and it’s going to be fantastic.

What Grantaire is not expecting is a sudden blur of black and shiny gold-red in front of his eyes and a sharp burst of pain with the clack of metal against his teeth. His mouth is forced wide open by Enjolras’ swift demanding fingers, and holy shit, holy fucking shit, Enjolras just put him in a ball gag, it’s a fucking ball gag, tasting like copper with a small hole for ventilation or breathing or some shit like that right in the middle of it. He can feel the leather holding it so tight in his mouth, inside of his teeth, and holy shit even with the hole Grantaire can’t breathe. He can’t breathe and he can taste copper in his mouth and he’s aware his hands are flailing through the air, Enjolras holding on to him tight and warm and Grantaire feels like he’s going to fly apart just from this, god help him if Enjolras touches him right now.

“Holy shit,” Enjolras says while Grantaire shudders against him and tastes copper in his mouth, can’t get around the taste, can’t shut his mouth but can’t speak, like Enjolras has taken control of even words, and he’s so aroused and so hard and he feels like he’s going to die. Enjolras turns him around, and Grantaire feels like he’s just flopping over as directed, inelegant and loose like he barely has control over his own body. Enjolras is looking at him like he’s the most fascinating thing in the world, pressing his index finger beneath Grantaire’s jaw and it feels so strange, makes the copper rock up against the roof of his mouth. Grantaire whines. 

He’s pressed back against the wall, and his hands keep clutching at Enjolras’ shoulders, spasming with every clack of the ball against the roof of his mouth, and his teeth, and his tongue, and sometimes his tongue presses up against the hole in the copper and it’s a rough thing that feels amazing. Enjolras looks very, very satisfied with this.

“Here’s your one choice,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire tries to pay attention, tries to focus for Enjolras, he really does. “You can come now, or wait. Do you want-”

Grantaire doesn’t even let him finish the sentence, nodding furiously, digging his fingers into Enjolras’ shoulders and trying not to squirm too much. And that’s enough for Enjolras. He doesn’t even hesitate, he just smiles beautifully and bends down and it’s almost delicate how his mouth slides down around Grantaire’s cock, and Enjolras likes this. He really, really likes this. His eyes are closed, and he’s going painfully slow, torturing Grantaire for his own pleasure, which makes it even worse and Grantaire is so grateful for the gag because it means he’s not shouting or begging, he just whines frantically as he comes. Enjolras swallows with that fucking satisfied humming noise because of course he does. At least Grantaire doesn’t have to panic about staining the carpet.

He sits panting against the copper gag while Enjolras takes his time about pulling off, almost lazy about licking Grantaire’s cock, and Grantaire ends up banging the back of his head on the wall because he can tell this is going to be torture. He can tell this is going to be torture, and that Enjolras’ plans have only just begun, and Grantaire is just going to resign himself to the fact he’s going to have to be physically carried home after whatever else Enjolras is plotting. His legs are already feeling too weak to walk.

Enjolras finally takes pity on him, releasing Grantaire’s cock with one final ridiculous kiss, and Grantaire releases a deep breath. Mostly. It’s so hard to do with a gag in his mouth, and he probably looks like a mess, and Enjolras still can’t get enough of him for some reason.

“I thought that was only fair, since I masturbated with the gloves,” Enjolras says, like he’s talking about the weather or social engagements or train schedules and oh fuck, this is his payback, isn’t it. There’s a twinge of excitement to his words, though, and Grantaire stares at him.

And suddenly, Enjolras wraps two fingers in a metal loop Grantaire didn’t even know is on the gag’s leather strap, yanking Grantaire viciously forward and onto his shaky legs. Enjolras is holding him in front of the ridiculously massive mirror, old enough that the glass has an obvious silvery sheen and square panels combined to make the surface. Grantaire doesn’t notice that much, though, because he can finally see the gag and it’s beautiful. He never thought a fucking ball gag could be beautiful, but it is, it’s a masterpiece of copper and dark leather, with the two copper rings hooking the gag’s strap to the band keeping it almost frustratingly tightly attached to Grantaire’s head. And there’s something about that one single hole in the metal, something about how imprecise it is.

“I’m glad you like it, I had it custom made,” Enjolras says proudly, arms wrapped around Grantaire’s waist from behind and pressing his lips against Grantaire’s temple. It looks like some sort of incredibly fucked up wedding portrait. “I was planning to give you all the details on it, but you’re more affected by this than I expected.” That makes Grantaire laugh, which comes out as a strange huff of air against the copper (copper, fuck, he didn’t even know the inescapable taste of metal was so amazing until now) gag. “Still, I’ll let you decide. Do you want me to tell you now?”

Grantaire has no idea how there’s even a story behind a fucking ball gag, so he can’t help but nod a curious yes.

“Of course you do,” Enjolras says, lips pressing affection into Grantaire’s hair. “Originally I was going to give you options, as you so considerately did for me, but why do that when I knew what you’d pick?” He taps the copper, obviously proud of himself, and Grantaire ends up rolling his eyes because yes, fine, good job Enjolras, you picked a fucking ball gag. And apparently Enjolras can read his mind, since he quickly yanks on one of the copper rings, digging it deeper into Grantaire’s mouth and he tastes copper everywhere from the roof of his mouth to his cheeks and Christ it feels like if Enjolras pulls more it’ll hit the back of his throat and Jesus, Grantaire has to clutch at Enjolras’ arms again. 

Enjolras doesn’t let go. If anything, he pulls harder. “It isn’t just any old copper, though. I put a lot of thought into this, Grantaire. You should appreciate that. Do you appreciate that?”

Grantaire nods immediately, and nearly chokes on the metal ball stuck in his mouth. With Enjolras still keeping the strap taut, there’s not even the wiggle room of moving his head. It leaves him coughing, but Enjolras still doesn’t do anything but watch and keep the gag pulled tight and it feels like the soft leather is biting into the edges of his mouth, even when it’s so hard to breathe he feels like he’s going to pass out.

“What I did, is that I found a very nice, very discrete man who was willing to melt some bullet casings down for me,” Enjolras says, and bites Grantaire’s earlobe so hard it hurts and there might be blood and holy fucking shit he is so glad he came already because he has a mouth full of ammunition and he can’t breathe, his entire existence is focused on the cruel sharp taste of copper on his tongue and teeth and cheeks. He’s choking on ammo, drooling on what makes a bullet so much more than a single chunk of metal. Enjolras melted down murder and stuffed it behind his teeth and Grantaire’s legs fucking give out right there and then which is so ridiculous, but Enjolras seems ready for it, twisting him so Grantaire is splayed over one of the very nice tables in the room.

And holy fuck. Holy fuck, holy fucking shit, the hole. The single ragged hole with imperfect edges, in and out, wider on the outside than the inside.

Grantaire’s pretty sure the noise he makes is too loud, it’s far too loud, but if he doesn’t at least try to say how desperately he needs Enjolras to fuck him right now he’s going to die because holy shit, he knows exactly what Enjolras did. 

And then Enjolras gagged him with it.

Enjolras is smirking and smug as fuck, effortlessly spreading Grantaire’s shaking thighs so he can stand between them and lean over Grantaire and kiss copper. He’s fierce about it, and they’re sharing what little air Grantaire can fight into his lungs. Grantaire tries to pull Enjolras down, grabs him by the lapels of his suit jacket, and the fact Enjolras is still completely dressed except for his stupid fucking tie is suddenly driving Grantaire insane. To Grantaire’s complete surprise, Enjolras lets himself be tugged down, even though he bats Grantaire’s hands away, stretching completely over Grantaire and nipping at his neck.

“I have a feeling you figured out what the hole is from,” Enjolras says, and it sounds calm, but Grantaire can hear the shaking he’s fighting so hard to hide. “You want to hear it out loud though, don’t you?”

Grantaire immediately starts nodding, desperate and helpless because fuck, he wants to hear Enjolras say it, he wants it so bad, and Enjolras is appeased. He nips hard at Grantaire’s jaw and moves away, the buttons of his shirt biting into Grantaire’s chest in the movement, and Grantaire is clutching at the sides of the very nice table and can feel ornate woodworking on the sides that is probably covered in golden leaf, which is just insane. Grantaire has been fucked on tables before but as far as he can remember he has never ever been fucked on what is probably a historical work of art.

He doesn’t have much time to think about that, though – Enjolras reaches down on the floor and comes back up with lube and Grantaire has a horrifying moment of realizing he has no idea what else Enjolras decided to tote along for this encounter. The thought vanishes very quickly when he sees Enjolras coating his fingers and running his hand over Grantaire’s inner thigh. “I melted down some of the bullets from that sniper rifle we used in Madrid,” he says, and thrusts a finger inside of Grantaire, hard and too fast, fast enough it hurts, and Grantaire groans and tries to curse but the best he can do is a garble of noises around the gag. 

He remembers that day, being wet and tired and huddled together under a tarp and pretending he wasn’t desperately fighting the urge to say fuck it to their unspoken agreement of never mentioning how pathetically in love Grantaire is, and fuck it to the job or the mission or whatever it was that forced them out there in a freezing downpour, and fuck it to the fact they had to be silent, and just bite his lower lip and grind down into Enjolras’ awkwardly placed knee like it was his dying wish. 

Grantaire doesn’t have long to think about it, though, because Enjolras keeps pulling out all the way and driving his finger back in and it hurts, but it hurts in the best way possible now. “I melted the bullet casings down, and when my very discrete new friend gave me a perfect hollow sphere sized perfectly, just perfect for your fucking amazing mouth, Grantaire, I went into the room with the guns,” Enjolras says.

He doesn’t give Grantaire a second finger. Oh no. He thrusts three inside of Grantaire, efficient and ruthless, and Grantaire tries to cry out, tries to moan or groan or something but the fucking gag makes it a garble of noise and saliva and copper, always copper. Grantaire shudders. Enjolras doesn’t even consider stopping, eyes staring directly into Grantaire’s, and he can’t breathe all over again.

“You were right about a .22 revolver being pretty much useless for anything beyond decoration or target shooting,” Enjolras says, and it’s coming, Grantaire knows he’ll say it any moment now and he feels tense and broken apart and fuck the cultural value of the table Enjolras threw him onto, Grantaire gets a white-knuckled grip on the edges and doesn’t give a shit about the gold leaf because Enjolras is going to fuck him and that is so much more important. Grantaire wants it so, so bad, and he knows Enjolras can tell because he says, “God, you’re so fucking desperate for it, aren’t you? You’re always desperate for me, want any part of me you can get. Everything about you is begging for me, Grantaire. I took your mouth away and you’re still begging so beautifully, all just for me.”

Grantaire is helpless to do anything but nod so fast that the copper ball gag rocks between his teeth. He grabs at the hand Enjolras isn’t mercilessly ramming into him over and over jackhammer-fast, and Enjolras joins hands immediately, leading them down to Grantaire’s cock. He’s hard again and so sensitive and it was part of Enjolras’ fucking plan, wasn’t it, that there’d be this additional insanity. They don’t touch, though. Enjolras just draws circles around the base of Grantaire’s cock, lazy and infuriating and it’s so fucking good, it’s so, so good.

“I made that gag just for you, made it perfect for you, Grantaire,” Enjolras says. “And then I propped it between two pieces of wood and took that gun you hate so fucking much and lined the barrel up to the perfect center of that gorgeous copper ball and pulled the trigger and shot straight through those melted down bullet casings I gagged you with.”

Grantaire’s entire body shudders, like a rolling jolt of lightning curling through him because he was right Enjolras did it he did it he fucking shot the gag, he put a bullet straight through the copper, entry and exit, and fuck being quiet. It takes no time at all for Enjolras to pull his fingers out and throw Grantaire’s legs over his shoulders and thrust inside of him hard and fast, so fast. Grantaire barely has time to moan under the gag before Enjolras pulls out and doesn’t thrust back in. Oh no. Enjolras takes his fucking time about it, and there’s no rhythm, it’s just brutally hard, and Grantaire can hear the table scrape across the floor with every single thrust and Enjolras is fucking him like they’re dying, leaving bruises on his hips and bite marks that won’t fade for days and, strangest of all, he’s not saying a single word. The only sounds in the room are what come from rough, hard sex, and the table scraping across the floor.

Enjolras is completely silent, save for the occasional rough breath that even Enjolras can’t avoid with this level of fucking into someone so ruthless and deep that they’re torn between screaming and passing out and laughing desperately from the breathless passion. He’s silent and beautiful and he’s staring right into Grantaire’s eyes, unblinking and so fiery it scorches every cell in Grantaire’s body, and every scorched cell belongs completely to Enjolras.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Ignore it,” Enjolras says immediately, but Grantaire stills, stops rocking back into Enjolras, tenses as he stares at the door. And apparently that is not okay with Enjolras, who reaches out and grabs Grantaire by one of the rings on his gag to pull him face forward, looking right at Enjolras. There’s no anger or irritation or, fuck, anything in his eyes beyond pure fire and absolute devotion. “Grantaire. Ignore it.”

Grantaire can do nothing but whimper, and obey.

The second knock is accompanied by a cautious, muffled, “Hello?”

Grantaire is so glad he is gagged because he is about ready to freak the fuck out, Jesus, this was such a bad idea, fuck fuck fuck, but Enjolras doesn’t seem remotely worried. “Go away, I’m fucking my husband,” Enjolras snaps back, and holy shit suddenly Grantaire can’t even see straight, can’t think about a single fucking thing but the vicious satisfaction in his words and how completely shameless Enjolras is, and he doesn’t know quite what’s going on but Enjolras is pulling the gag out almost frantically, something insane and fanatical in his eyes as he says, “Yes, yes, fuck yes, there’s my boy, come on Grantaire, say it, say it, please say it for me-”

“Oh, Enjolras, I love you so fucking much,” Grantaire says, purrs, blissed out and languid and feeling like a fucking supermodel spread out on the table. He can’t stop saying Enjolras’ name, and he comes with it rolling out of his lips, Enjolras’ hand barely touching his cock. Enjolras makes a completely broken noise and bends to kiss Grantaire and it’s a glorious sloppy mess. He barely manages to pull out of Grantaire before coming, two rough strokes of his hand and Enjolras comes on Grantaire’s stomach and looks like Grantaire just slapped him across the face.

For a moment, they can’t do anything but pant and stare. Grantaire couldn’t do anything else even if he wanted to – just breathing is hard, even without the copper gag in his mouth. The taste still lingers, and he loves it, ends up licking his lips, helpless to do anything but stay sprawled on the table until Enjolras decides he’s done indulging his compulsion to lick Grantaire clean. Which Grantaire isn’t complaining about. He curls a hand gently in Enjolras’ welcoming sweaty hair. Enjolras makes a pleased noise against his abdomen when Grantaire starts to pet him.

“That was nice,” Grantaire says, when he can actually talk.

“You are the most amazing thing on this planet,” Enjolras tells him, and kisses him, sweet and soft and slow, like he wants to see how long it can last. It’s one of those kisses where Grantaire’s toes curl. Enjolras’ secret bag of tricks also includes wet wipes, apparently, and it’s hard to pay attention to anything beyond the urge to just curl against Enjolras and tell him how much he loves him.

But, bizarrely enough, Enjolras seems perfectly okay with that idea. There’s a couch in the room, adjacent to the massive mirror, and Enjolras practically carries Grantaire there.

“The door,” Grantaire remembers fuzzily.

Enjolras has a blanket too, apparently. It’s kind of bizarre that they’re going to take a nap in the National Assembly, but Grantaire is not complaining about that. Not when Enjolras is curled around him on the elaborate chaise and it’s so warm and soft.

“Don’t worry about the door, it’s just Jehan,” Enjolras says, and plants a kiss on the top of Grantaire’s head. “Combeferre voted, Jehan thought this would be horribly romantic, everything’s fine, we’re taking a nap now.”

And god, Grantaire has a lot of things he could say about that. He’s definitely going to say them, but not right now. Not with Enjolras humming into his hair and holding him tight and safe and they’re in love. They are so very, very in love.

Grantaire joins their hands together, their rings clacking together in a beautiful way, and falls asleep.


End file.
